


Hoping Is Not An Advantage

by Sweety_Mutant, Wingsy-Days (Sweety_Mutant)



Category: The Great Escape (1963)
Genre: "supernatural" elements, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Torture, Coma, Descent into Madness, Gen, Hearing Voices, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mac is Sandy come fight me, Mental Health Issues, Non-Explicit Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person Limited, Prison, Prisoner of War, Psychological Torture, Recovery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Whump, and sometimes it's, expect some twists, loops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 58
Words: 91,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22632175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/pseuds/Sweety_Mutant, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/pseuds/Wingsy-Days
Summary: It's all about surviving. Or is it? Surviving, or living? After the escape, Bob had thought he'd die. No, he'd be brought back to the camp. But things never end up the way you imagined them to be, never.Sometimes, optimism and hope are the only ways to stay alive. Sometimes, the answers to survival are elsewhere. Sometimes, you just need the right circumstances and sometimes, hoping is not an advantage.AU- PoV Bob Hendley, hard & tragic, and expect things to get weird. -this is a finished work, but i will publish it chapter by chapter as it will be quite long-
Relationships: Bob Hendley & Andrew MacDonald, Colin Blythe & Bob Hendley, Denys Cavendish & Andrew MacDonald, Denys Cavendish & Bob Hendley, Roger Bartlett & Denys Cavendish, Roger Bartlett/Andrew MacDonald, one-sided Bob Hendley/Andrew MacDonald
Comments: 47
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mad_Amethyst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Amethyst/gifts), [FilleDePapier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FilleDePapier/gifts).



> Where to begin?
> 
> I kind of want to copy/paste the post that I made on Tumblr about why I post this now, but I also wish to Satan my anxiety would not be so hard that I NEED to post a freaking novel justifying myself each time I create something.  
> So I'll leave it up to you to read the post [*here*](https://reptiliandroidstudio.tumblr.com/post/190735352871/sometimes-all-you-need-is-a-leap-of-faith/)  
> To summarise in case you don't want to read the post, I started to write this fic in July 2016, it more than 100k-words long now, and changed me as a person and a writer. I have been deadly afraid to publish it because I am anxious as f*ck about the fandom's reaction.  
> But today is leap of faith day. Probably it's my depression because of University pushing me to feel like I achieved something, and it's true, I finished this fic. I achieved it. I posted it.  
>   
> Now onto the important part:  
>  _Hendley's internal voices are in italic, like so._  
>  _ **For understanding reasons, sentences in German are in bold and italic.**_  
>  Specific trigger warnings (that might be spoilery, but I'd rather you be warned) in no particular order -because I did not want to clutter the tags:  
> -strangulation  
> -emotional manipulation  
> -hands/fingers torture  
> -electrical torture  
> -feet torture  
> -sleep deprivation  
> -starving/dehydratation  
> -shootings  
> -beatings  
> -psychological torture
> 
> so, you have been warned now, and I hope that you will give this fic a chance. I did enjoy writing it. I loved it, diving deep into the tragedy. I made have made myself cry at some points though.  
> Dedicated to my lovely beta Amethyst  
> (Disclaimer, I don't own the movie blah blah blah do I look like I have the money to own it)  
> Enjoy!

When he thought back on it, Bob knew that he must have looked silly, holding tightly onto Colin as they were manhandled into a truck, taken God-knows-where by the SS. He was beyond grateful for Colin’s survival. It was unreal, and yet his friend was here, warm and breathing against his chest. His sightless eyes were full of questions, yet none of them dared to speak yet. Who knew their captors’ orders, what could fuel their rage? 

Bob tried to count the hours. His watch had broken during the plane crash. He was lucky that it had not been his wrist or his arm. They were so lucky. Bob could not care less about his bloodied, torn shirt. He could feel a slight wound at his scalp, and painful bruises forming on every inch of his body, but no, he did not care. Not when the both of them were so blissfully alive. They had managed to stay alive, against all odds. They had managed to stay alive. Bob kept repeating this litany in his head to make sure of its reality. 

However, for the moment, it seemed impossible to Bob that the SS would kill them. They were to be taken back to the camp, no? They were under the authority of the Luftwaffe… “Everything will be alright.”

Colin’s eyes shot up upon hearing Bob’s whispered words.

“Do you really believe so?” 

Bob dared to smile, quickly as if somebody would rip it off his face. “Yes. I said we would make it in great shape, as long as you were going with me. Remember? You’re still with me, so we’ll be alright.”

“I remember yes. I am sorry Hendley. I know that I have only been a burden for you. If not for me, you would have really gotten away.”

“This is nonsense my friend. You have as much a right to escape as anyone else.” _I know you’ll never believe it, but I do, and it’s enough for the both of us._

Colin was the one to smile then. He thanked Bob, and the two of them fell silent again for the duration of the trip. Hours may have passed, and the bumpy road did not help their sore bodies. Yet the silence was nowhere near heavy. They felt unrealistically safe. 

Out of sudden, the truck stopped. A guard stood by the opening, preventing Bob and Colin from getting out. They could hear steps and voices, and a few seconds later they were joined by two other recaptured escapees. Their faces were familiar to Bob, they must have been some stooges. The two young men briefly saluted them, but none talked as the truck started up again. It was now clear that the trip would be a long one. If they were to be brought back to Silesia… 

Bob tried to fall asleep, to no avail. There was a pang of worry, unsettling questions and doubts plaguing his mind. He was born an optimist, yet inside there was a dark voice that kept on whispering that maybe, they would not make it. That maybe this truck was taking them to a faraway forest, so that the SS could shoot them over a shallow grave where no one would ever think of searching for them. Of course, he would never tell Colin about these dark thoughts. There was no need to add his doubts to his friend’s obvious distress. Bob would keep smiling then, even if Colin could not see his smile anymore. 

The next time the truck stopped, a SS told them in imprecise English to get out. Bob had thought that he would be blinded by the sunlight. He thought that he would try to see if he recognized his surroundings. Hoped that, against all odds, they were back at the camp, the familiar pine trees all around and the sandy compound before them. But no. There was no sun to greet them, only the dim dusk pierced by the light beams of streetlamps. An anonymous town by night. They were ushered inside a building by the soldiers, and, too busy steadying Colin, Bob did not really pay attention to the corridors they were walking in. Sometimes they turned left, there were stairs too. Walking down. Many rooms. Too many too remember.

_Stupid! If you want to get out, you should at least try to draw a mental map. Getting out of this? With all the guards and soldiers… you’re in the devil’s den my boy, you’ll have to think of more intelligent ways to escape than the front door._

The soldiers leading them had stopped now. There was a large, heavy wooden door in front of Bob. Muffled voices could barely be heard beyond. A SS knocked at the door, and upon hearing a barked answer, slipped inside. 

After waiting for a few eternities outside, Bob saw the door being opened again. The same SS grabbed him and Colin, and they went in the room. 

There, on the other side of a surprisingly large underground room, with stones columns and arks, they were met by a man Bob swore he had already seen before. Close cropped hair, roundish glasses… most likely from the Gestapo. He was flanked by a fair-haired, taller SS. Bob could not recall where he had seen him, and that was quite upsetting. He did not like this kind of situation, he felt disadvantaged. 

Still trying to analyse the situation, Bob kept a hand on Colin’s shoulders to keep him from falling down. He imagined well what a sorry sight they might have been, all bloody and bruised. Yet there was no tingling of humiliation creeping up Bob’s neck. A captive he may have been, yet he was proud of the look of defiance on his face. Of the trouble he had caused. He was glad to be alive enough to stand there, alongside Colin, successful. 

The Gestapo agent eyed them for a few seconds, resentment and contempt passing over his face. The silence was growing heavy, echoed by stone walls and footsteps barely heard in the distance. Bob did not move. He looked straight ahead. Finally, the Gestapo agent cleared his throat and addressed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely hope you liked this first chapter. It's not much, not very intense in comparison to what will come but you know, I have to set the atmosphere, the ambiance... anyway, i am not used to beg but please leave a comment if you liked it or have anything to say, because you know, publishing for this fandom sure feels like shouting into the void of space and only hearing the echo of your own voice. Small dying fandoms have their charm I guess.  
> Oh, and it'll be weekly updates -Monday evenings, 'cause I said so.  
> ILY, -Sweety


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New week, new chapter! I was actually surprised three people read the first chapter!  
> Enjoy :)

“Hendley and Blythe, if I am not mistaken. Welcome back.” The agent did not give them the time to answer, and went on. “Imagine our surprise when we received a call telling us that a plane had been stolen. You must admit that this is quite an uncommon way to escape.”

He paused then, and Bob could not prevent himself from answering: 

“Well, thank you for the compliment.” 

The German brushed it off, though his SS companion’s face hardened for a split second.

“We have of course information on the both of you, but you had not struck us as this type of persons. You’re even wearing civilian clothes… I suppose that your insignia and papers disappeared when the plane crashed.”

Bob had to think quickly. He had no right to make a mistake. Not when they were simply talking and not yet threatening. Not when there was Colin beside him, whom he had to keep safe and sound. 

“Yes, obviously," he answered, soundind more confident than he felt. "It all… burned?”

“Obviously… You understand that we find ourselves in a peculiar situation. The two of you had no reason to steal this plane to reach your _home_.” 

Bob shuddered at the stress that the Gestapo agent put on the last word. _For once, honesty is the best course of action my boy._

“My friend here has lost his eyesight. Escaping by train or afoot was then out of the question. Planes were the next best thing. I’m sure you would have taken the same decision.” Beside him, Colin nodded his agreement. The agent took a few seconds to think, and exchanged a meaningful look with his SS colleague.

“A blind man? Being part of a mass escape? Bartlett has lowered his standards,” snickered the SS. _I had to fight to have him lower his standards, thank you very much._ The SS got up and was at Colin’s side in a few silent steps. 

“It’s a hard to believe story Hendley. Forgive us.”

 _Wait!_ The SS drew his pistol and pointed it at Colin’s temple. Colin who did not move, who did not notice. Bob could feel cold sweat wetting his shirt. 

“Blythe, are you alright?” asked the Gestapo agent. The SS put his finger on the trigger. _No! Don’t shoot!_

“I am, thank you,” answered Colin sincerely, not even looking at him. “You can believe what he says you know. I can’t even see you.” He lifted his hand, stopping the gesture in mid-air, as if to feel something in front of him. Bob held his breath.

The SS huffed, and moved the pistol to Bob’s head, but Colin did not react. Time seemed to have stopped, enclosing Bob in a never-ending mental battle. They had to be bluffing. _They are going to kill us both here! It was a bad idea since the beginning… No, they can’t. They can’t…_

With a gesture of the hand from his superior, the SS lowered his gun and fired a blank shot in the floor. Bob breathed again. They had been bluffing. Colin jumped slightly, startled by the noise, unable to understand what had happened. 

The Gestapo agent pressed on a button on his desk. 

“We’re not finished Hendley.” 

Four soldiers silently went in the room from a side door, and led Bob and Colin in yet another maze of columned corridors and stairs. Finally, they came upon a door that had a white mark on it. Two soldiers held onto Bob while the third opened the door. Inside, Bob caught a glimpse of many hunched silhouettes, some he recognized as being part of the Organisation. Had they already caught so many of them? How many were still out there, waiting for a hypothetical train, walking in the woods? While Bob was lost in his thoughts, the fourth soldier grabbed Colin by the shoulders and threw him in the room. Bob heard himself shout, something that could have been “no!”, or more simply “Colin!”, but no one paid attention to him. Maybe he heard Colin answer, or maybe it was in his mind. He wanted so bad to jump forward to catch Colin, to prevent him from falling down, but the soldiers holding his arms tightened his grip, efficiently preventing him to move. Bob could see as the door was slammed shut that inside the room, someone had managed to catch Colin. Well… at least he was in good hands. Or so Bob hoped. 

_Something here seems foul._ _Under any other circumstances--_

Why had they been separated? Had it something to do with their interrogation, just a few minutes ago? The Gestapo agent had said that they were not finished with him. Not Colin. Colin had done nothing wrong, they had no right to keep him… but maybe if he was with the others, he would be safe. They were so many inside… they could not kill so many of them. Colin was safe, it was only logical. Even if Bob was far from safe, dragged by the soldiers further inside the building, he was glad that his friend was in what he imagined to be a better situation. 

They had walked but a short distance when they stopped in front of another door, smaller. 

A soldier roughly palmed his body, _get your filthy hands off me,_ taking off his belt while another swiftly took his shoe laces. They also took his tie away. _Cautious, are we not?_ A soldier then took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Without a word, they shoved Bob inside, locking swiftly the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, as always, comments and kudos and feedback/constructive criticism is always loved! 'Til next week!


	3. Chapter 3

It took Bob a few seconds to get acquainted to his surroundings. His eyes swept over the room. It was small, eight and a half feet long at most. There was a tiny window at the top of the opposite wall, so small that Bob would not even have been able to slip his head through it. Moreover, it was crossed by sturdy-looking iron bars. There was also a dirty cot, which had visibly seen many other guests lie on it. Bob preferred not to think about the origin of the dark spots tainting it. There were too many unbearable implications and possibilities written in those stains.

At last, Bob’s eyes fell on the figure sitting on the cot. He recognized Cavendish at once. He was still in his dark escape suit. 

“Hello Hendley. So they caught you too?” 

Bob acquiesced. “Hello Cavendish. Yeah, Colin and me. We were picked up a few, well some hours ago, but I got separated from him. They put him in another room.”

This information seemed to interest Cavendish, who got up from the cot in one swift move. 

“Big room? Many chaps inside?”

Bob nodded. Cavendish’s grim expression twisted into a smile for a split second, then he muttered, more to himself than to Bob:

“Mac was right then.” He seemed lost in thoughts for a few seconds then, eyes far away, and Bob could read worry on his face. It took him some times to realise who Cavendish had just talked about. It clicked right in. _It cannot be. Not him!_

“Wait— Wait a second! Did you say Mac? Like, _our_ Mac?”

Cavendish looked at him again, and answered:

“Sure. They took him and Roger away about one hour before they brought you in. I hope for them that they will be back soon. I would not count on it too much though. Preissen seemed too happy to have them back.” 

This was too much information for Bob to process at the moment. Not only did he have to cope with being recaptured and separated from Colin, but all of this now? Bob had to reorder his thoughts. 

So Bartlett and MacDonald had been caught then. _Our biggest hazard indeed._ It was not so much a surprise for Bob, once he thought about it. He had known all along that Roger would not make it. It also soon became obvious to Bob why those two would be kept here in a small cell, apart from the others. They were marked. But in that case…

“Say, Cavendish, why are you here?”

“Me? For the same reason as you I guess.”

Cavendish had jumped back on the cot, and he gestured at Bob to come sit there too. Bob obliged, and even if the mattress was worn out and not soft by any standards, it was still better than standing up. Especially after hours spent in a truck. 

“That’s exactly my problem. I’ve no idea why I’m here, and not with Colin.”

Cavendish looked at him then, and Bob saw both incredulity and worry. 

“Are you being honest there Hendley?” 

“Yeah, yeah I am. Don’t worry.” _I know that I have the reputation to lie, but seriously?_

Cavendish shot a well-groomed eyebrow up, and answered:

“Do you remember what Preissen told you? He must have been the one interrogating you when the goons brought you here.”

“Preissen?”

That name did not sound familiar at all… though he had already heard Cavendish mentioning it a minute ago or so.

“Gestapo officer. Not much hair, glasses.” 

From Cavendish’s tone, Bob could nearly taste the thick animosity. An animosity that he found he shared, now that the description matched perfectly with the man who had nearly ordered Colin to be shot. 

“Yes. He was the one— He said, that we had not finished, him and me.” Bob decided not to speak about Colin then, nor about the gunplay. Not that he didn’t trust Cavendish, but he did not know exactly who in the organisation had known about Colin’s eyesight. It did not seem like something Roger would do, telling everybody about someone else’s weakness. Though someone had to have told Roger in the first place. And who that someone might be, Bob had no trouble to guess it. _It’s his job, after all…_

“He is suspecting you of being more than a simple escapee then. Maybe you did something to catch his eye, or maybe you had just the wrong number, since, no offence meant, you do not strike me as the MI9 type.”

“MI9? I’m under suspicion of being a spy? But— but their orders are to shoot spies!”

“Yes. They made it very clear to me. But you know, the shooting part is only the end of a very long process.”

For the moment, Bob tried to ignore the implications behind Cavendish’s last sentence. He had no need for that now. _Under any other circumstances_ — _No._ He had never heard those words. 

“So, for Roger and Mac, I can understand why they caught the Gestapo’s eye. But you? You are under suspicion too?”

Cavendish let out a dry laugh, and answered:

“Oh, the Gestapo had been suspecting me of being quite important to the escape process for quite a time. I’ve been in the bag for three years, and that gave them plenty of time to have their suspicions. Not that they are wrong of course, but that’s another story. Spy though? I knew I had it coming, you know, but still— if only that could be a joke, it would be a pretty good one!”

He laughed again. Yet again, Bob could hear no humour. A hint of desperation maybe… Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and Cavendish said:

“Whatever you’ve done to cross them, I’m sorry for you. If you are as clear as you say you are, then it’s wrong for you to be here. But there is also the possibility that they do not give a damn whether or not you are anything. They could want a scapegoat.”

Bob nodded. He could feel genuine concern in Cavendish’s voice, and now that the first questions had been asked, now that he had a blurry picture of the situation in his mind, he was beginning to be concerned too. More for himself than for Roger and Mac. _They had it coming, even the old man said so to Roger._ More for himself than for Cavendish, because they had never been that close, even if the Englishman seemed kind enough, as kind as he would be able to find in such a cell… Bob’s musing were suddenly interrupted by Cavendish’s voice.

“Well, if that’s okay with you, I think that I am going to resume what I was doing before you came to visit, which is sleeping. If you want to join me, please do.” 

With these words, he leaned against the wall, half sitting on the mattress half lying down. There was plenty of space left by his side. After a few seconds of hesitation, _things could happen, what if I am asleep and don’t notice? What if I wake up somewhere else?_ Finally, his tired and sore limbs decided for him, and he mimicked Cavendish’s stance. They both fell into a fitful but blessed sleep in a matter of seconds, shoulders touching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter. A little side note now -although I know I should wait a bit more because there's no way anyone will be commenting yet XD 
> 
> 1)This fic works in """sections""". The first one is roughly 40 chapters and 45k words.  
> But now, what would you readers prefer? That I publish each section separately and make a series? Or that I put all 100-odd chapters (all the sections together) in the same fic? I don't want it to look like a big brick so maybe the series is better, but then again i'd have to hope that people will go on and read each installement in the series, and not be deterred by each "end".  
> 2) As I put into the tags, there will be supernatural elements later on (almost nothing is in the first section) so do you advise me to tag them now or tag them later? I don't want you to feel cheated and read half of the fic to find out you don't want to read a supernatural story, but it's kind of a very big spoiler also. What would you want me to do?
> 
> Anyway, I'll take my decision soon, please tell me in the comments what you think would be best in your opinion, and I'll take it into account in my final decisions.  
> Love ya.


	4. Chapter 4

Bob woke up several times. He had no way of knowing how long he had slept, nor what time it was. Each time though, Cavendish was still asleep, snoring softly beside him. Sometimes, hurried footsteps could be heard in the corridors beyond the door. 

Each time he heard someone nearby, Bob wondered if the door would open, if somebody would be thrown in with them, as disoriented as he was at first. He wondered if they had all been caught in the end. Bob had fancied himself one of those with the most chances to succeed. He was smart and an optimist. He had a way to get away from sticky situations… if not him, who could succeed? Roger and Mac, caught too… Hilts maybe? That boy had the guts to get away. Maybe the Tunnel Kings also… at least the region near Zagan could have been familiar to the Pole… where was he from exactly again?

Each time, he ended up thinking about Colin, hoping that he was alright. 

Each time, his thoughts lulled Bob back to sleep. 

He was strangely back in the camp. A thought somewhere in his brain told him that this was wrong, and not possible, but Bob liked to believe that he was indeed there. He walked back to his hut, finding the compound relatively empty, save for echoes of voices. Well… everybody must have been in another hut. As he was getting closer to his room, Bob felt his limbs become heavier and heavier, until he fell asleep on Colin’s bunk. _He would not mind_ … His body had barely touched the mattress that he felt hands shaking him, and heard far away a familiar northern burr. 

“Wake up. Someone’s coming!”

Bob’s eyes opened at once, to see that, firstly he was not at all back in the camp but in his cell, _thank you very much dream_ , secondly that Cavendish – who had woken him – was up and kept looking at the door. 

Bob groaned. “What’s happening?”

“Listen. I think they are bringing somebody inside.”

Bob listened. The footsteps were indeed less faint than the other times he had heard them, and in a matter of seconds, he could decipher that at least four people were approaching the door. Very soon, they both heard keys in the lock, and the door opened. 

Outside, Bob could see that two soldiers were holding a handcuffed Mac. The third soldier was holding the door open. 

The soldiers then unlocked Mac’s cuffs and tossed him inside, slamming the door and locking it again. 

At first, Mac did not acknowledge Bob nor Cavendish’s presence. He took off his coat and began massaging his wrists. Then, he looked at them with a smile too natural to not have been forced. 

“Hello boys.” His eyes fell more specifically on Bob. “I’m sorry to see you again.”

“You knew I was there?” _How on Earth could he—_

“Our oh-so-kind interrogator spent at least one hour asking questions about you, so we had guessed that you’d be at least recaptured. Under any other circumstances I— och, nevermind.”

Mac walked towards the cot then, and sat down at a respectable distance from Bob. 

“Roger’s not with you?” asked Cavendish, still standing up.

“No, they decided to keep him with them for the night. Well I hope they won’t keep him for too long.” Mac fell silent then, and he pulled up his right trouser leg. He had a blackish bruise on the knee, and kneaded the sore spot, eyes closed. “God…”

A pang of something that could have been dread went through Bob’s heart at the sign of the wound. _Did they? Has he been?_ It seemed to be a regular bruise though… Mac must have had a sixth sense, because he opened his eyes and answered the unvoiced question.

“This? Oh I ran into a cyclist and fell. It’s nothing too bad, but those bastards had me standing up for hours… I guess they noticed my limp, it gave them an idea. ” 

Cavendish winced at that. Mac went on, “Oh, they are still being quite nice. It could be so much worse. I think that they know the score by now though. They won’t break him like that.”

“So, they plan to use you.”

“Aye.” Mac had a serene smile now. Bob felt left out of the conversation, but in a way, it allowed him to understand the situation. “They won’t break him like that either,” finished Mac. It did not please Bob very much, because, to be honest with himself, he did not understand. If he had been in Mac’s situation, his answer would have been more distressed. Use him… Use him to make Roger talk? What would happen if he did not talk? Whether Mac did not care about the answer or whether he was hiding his concern behind devotion, Bob did not like it. The mere thought that this could be his fate too made spiders crawl up his neck. 

No, he reassured himself. He was not known to be close to Roger. For Mac, it was different. Mac and Roger seemed to live in a world of their own, joined at the hip, and in the camp no one cared, or dared to confront them. Having the support of the Senior Officer, being respected for escaping and wreaking havoc helped. Barbed wire also changed one’s views on what was right or wrong, and shielded them from most of the outside world’s bigotry. But if the Gestapo knew… Bob preferred not to dwell on that. It was none of his concern. If the Gestapo had questions to ask him, they would be about his own nonexistent actions. Nothing else. It was comforting in a way… small comforts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading! Please tell me if you did, and even if you did not, I am flame-proof :p
> 
> Oh, and also, about last week's interrogations I had: I will publish everything as one story, not a series. So it'll be probably something around 100 chapters-long, and I will keep the total number of chapters until I am at the next section (so 40 for the moment, and once I am at the last chapter of the first part, I'll add the next section, so like 10, then 20, you get it.)  
> For the tags, I am still hesitating, but I'll keep you all updated.


	5. Chapter 5

A few minutes passed in a relative silence. It could have been an hour, maybe more. Mac seemed to be lost in thoughts, and out of the blue, he said to Bob:

“I’m sorry if I was rude when I came in. I must admit that my thoughts were somewhere else. If I may ask, what happened to you and Colin? The last time I saw you, it was in that train.”

Bob, who was slouched against the mattress, straightened his back. He knew that Mac would have asked sooner or later. He told the entire story then, from the jump to the plane, and the Alps so close _so close_. The crash, the fear for Colin. The guilt, the relief, the sick mix between the two. The journey back, and the interrogation. The separation. 

Not once did Mac interrupt him. His eyes were gleaming with interest, and Bob could almost hear his brain recording every tiny bit of information. When Bob had finished his story, Mac finally said:

“I’m glad Colin is still alive. I was wondering if he’d make it.”

Bob decided not to answer. _I knew it. You were the one who noticed. The one who told Roger. I knew it._

He saw Mac and Cavendish exchange a look. The latter said:

“Yes he told me already. You were right then, there is a whole bunch out there.”

Mac nodded, a grim smile on his face.

“I wish I wasn’t right. Still, I hope that them being there means that the Gestapo does not find them suspicious enough to keep them for a long time.”

“It seems only logical,” answered Cavendish. “Otherwise, why would they separate them from us?”

Yet, Bob did not pay attention to Cavendish’s reply. Bob had not thought that the Gestapo would keep the others. The many others. He had not thought about that at all in fact. He had assumed that they would be brought back to the camp… maybe that they were already there? 

“Wait a second? They could keep them?” Would they hurt Colin? If they wanted to use Mac as a mean to make Roger talk, would they use Colin to make Bob talk? What if the separation was only a decoy, meant to weaken them?

“We don’t know,” answered Mac. “They told Denys here that he would be shot, but they were pretty clear to Roger and me that they wanted to make our stay as long as possible. What could happen to the others? I have honestly no idea. I heard rumours back in the camp, but I never was sure of what reality was hidden behind ‘harsh reprisals’ and other german double talk. Let’s just hope that they are relatively safe.”

Relatively safe? Bob’s blood turned cold and boiled in the same second. How could Mac say such a thing?

“I’d like to have something more certain than relatively,” said Bob bitterly, “where Colin is concerned.”

Upon hearing that, Mac glared at him. Well, to be honest, Bob had not really meant for Mac to hear it. Or he had. He did not know. His brain was confused… he just wanted for Colin to be safe. He deserved safety and comfort, not whatever was happening now.

“Sure you do. And you know what? Roger is being tortured right now, they might have but a bullet through his head already and I have no way of knowing it. Don’t you think that I might want more certainty too?”

Bob may have felt that Mac’s outburst was not directed towards him, but towards Mac’s own powerlessness, yet he still felt the sting. Worse, a word echoed in his head. _Tortured_ . Mac had spat it bare, without any preamble. Without any metaphor or euphemism. Like a simple, unavoidable fact. Their fate. The realisation dawned on Bob. Looking back, he had known it since quite some time. He had denied the facts though. It had been too difficult. It only happened to others, and you talked about it in hushed tones when the kids were asleep. Oh, but they were no kids. Not anymore. They were grown men, locked up in a small dirty cell, with no way out and no idea of what could happen to them. No idea of what to do. They could only hope, and endure. That, Bob could do. He was good at hoping. _Rumours_...

He looked at Mac, hunched on the cot. He decided that maybe, apologizing could be a good idea. There would be enough tensions in the future, there was no need to add any when they could be avoided. 

Bob then tried to think about the best heartfelt display of remorse he could muster, when they heard footsteps in the corridor. The three of them were listening, hoping or not for those footsteps to stop in front of their cell. Of course, they did not. 

Finally, Bob said: 

“Look, I am sorry for what I said. It’s just that it’s all too much. Why I’m here, what could happen to Colin, what could happen to us— I—”

Mac smiled at him then. Gently, as if he really felt remorse. 

“No, I am the one to be sorry. I should not have shouted. It’s— It’s just knowing that he is there. He has already been through so much. He won’t break. I know it, but I too, would like a fair fate for my friend. And for us all.”

“Yes, I’m afraid we had to abandon fairness outside,” answered Bob.

“Yes. Also, I think that. We abandoned much since the war started, no don’t listen to me. Besides; you’ve nothing to do with us, right?”

Bob nodded, frantic. Cavendish nodded too. He was leaning against the door, as if listening or guarding, and said:

“All clear Mac.” 

Mac snapped his fingers then, and looked at Bob square in the eye. 

“This really worries me. You wanted to go back home, like most. For Denys, Roger a few others and me, it’s different. We have been in the bag since quite a long time now, and will deny everything until they grow tired and kill us, but… we had other plans. We had contacts and a few people to see before going home. We know people here, people in Paris, in Prague. We are not spies as they put it, but since three years, some of us had the idea to build up escape chains with the _résistance_ movements, and use properly the little help we got from MI9. I know I can trust you not to tell the Gestapo. And even if you did tell… Well it’s nothing they don’t already know. They want names, places.” 

Mac stopped talking then, giving Bob time to process the information. He should have guessed that the British higher-ups had other ideas than going home. They were not simple, common people. He tried to brush off those thoughts. What they did was right, if you looked at it globally. They tried to keep fighting. It was then logical that in three, four years, the Gestapo had their doubts. Still, that did not give him the answer he was seeking. 

Why him? 

_“Why me?”_

“Why you?” asked Mac. Oops. Bob had not planned to say that out loud. “I don’t know.” He smiled, more sad than mocking, “it’s not my job. More seriously, I think that your show with the plane… it caught their attention. It was very daring. Brilliant even.”

Bob smiled too. There was still pride on his face. Daring. Brilliant.

“It seemed to me like the easiest solution. I had not thought that it could lead to this.”

“I would like to be able to say the same thing,” answered Mac, and Bob did not know if he meant stealing a plane was bound to fail, or if he was speaking about his own attempt.

“You bet, we all do!” added Cavendish with a sneer. 

“Anyway,” finished Mac, “now that we are here, there’s no use dwelling on this for the moment. We will have time to do so later.”

“Yeah, when Roger will come back,” said Cavendish with a dark look, “if he comes back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, kudos and comments are always appreciated :)


	6. Chapter 6

As hours went by, the silence only grew heavier. Mac and Cavendish took turns leaning against the door, sometimes one of them would fall into a light sleep on the cot. Bob felt out of place. He was growing tired again, tired of doing nothing. He got up, stretched his legs and arms. 

He wanted to ask if the guards would bring them food, but even in his mind the question sounded stupid. 

He simply waited then. He waited and fell asleep, he waited and could not sleep anymore when the feeling of dread was becoming too strong. 

In the time that stretched between his insomnias and light naps, Bob noticed small things. How there was more light and then less in the cell. How he was unable to count hours. How Mac never rested his weight on his right leg. How Cavendish sometimes muttered under his breath, numbers or tunes? 

He also wondered if this was a torture technique. Leaving them alone, with no idea of the time, no idea what would happen to them. He shivered. _Oh God_ … He was the worst candidate for torture. The kind of man that was all talk and no guts and would say anything to make the pain stop. Yet something told him that the Gestapo interrogators were not the kind to stop.

He imagined Roger then, his polar opposite when facing their captors. He would remain stoic, of that Bob was sure. Maybe he would make a witty comment from time to time, enough to unleash their fury on him. Never enough to break him, as Mac had said, never enough. 

When he woke up an umpteenth time from a dreamless sleep, Bob saw that their captors had left them a small water jug and some dubious looking bread. By the look of it, neither Mac nor Cavendish had touched it. Bob looked at the food a second time, and his stomach decided to remind him that he had not eaten since at least twenty-four hours. 

He got up gingerly and walked towards the food. 

“Any of you want some?”

Cavendish shook his head, and said, “I’ll take water all right, but this… No thanks.”

“You will have nothing better, you know,” said Mac.

“I know. Still, I’m not hungry enough for this.”

“As you wish. Keep me a share please,” finished Mac. Bob agreed, though he had a nasty feeling that the share would not be for Mac himself. 

The food, as he had guessed, was barely edible. He forced himself to finish his share of bland bread that tasted like sawdust. The water was a tad better, well, it did not seem foul.

His stomach kind of full, it was easier for Bob to rest. He was bored to hell and back, but it was still better than to be… _tortured_. He had to get accustomed to the word, if only to fight the fear. 

Bob looked up, through their tiny window. The light seemed to be dimmer now than before, and he decided to try to go to sleep again. There was nothing better to do. He was slowly lulled to sleep by the hushed voices of Cavendish and Mac, who had been playing some kind of battleship on the floor, their short nails scraping lines in the dust. 

When he woke up, they had finished playing, and both were sleeping. Bob looked at the lightly engraved square patterns and crosses. Maybe, he would ask them to teach him the rules. Maybe, they would not have the time to do so. The light coming from the window was bright again. 

How long had he been there? 

What was happening? 

What had happened to the others? Were they still here, waiting aimlessly as he was? Were they back in the camp?

_Where are you Colin? Are you alright?_

Bob had taken a decision. The next hypothetical time that the guards would open the door, he would then try to sneak a peek outside, to see. To look for an answer, anything. Anything to keep his mind away from those interrogations.

As the light seeping through the barred window turned grey, Bob was holding on tight to his decision. He was standing close to the door when he heard footsteps coming closer again; yet, as his ill luck would have it, nothing would go according to plan. That seemed to be a constant in his recent life. 

Mac and Cavendish were still sleeping when Bob heard the key turn in the lock. If he wanted to have a look outside, he would not have time to wake them up. He then decided to stay right where he was, waiting for the door to open. _I have to know._

When the door finally opened, Bob found himself face to face with a SS soldier who blocked the view. The soldier pushed him out of the way, and two others dragged a body inside. A body that Bob recognized to be Roger’s when one of the soldiers threw it in his arms. A body that turned out to be unresponsive and quite heavy. 

As quickly as they had come in, the soldiers left the cell and locked the door again. Bob was struggling to hold Roger, an arm beneath his armpits and another under his knees. He had no idea what to do, and first of all he needed to get his face out of Roger’s wet hair. 

Luckily for him, the noise had awoken Mac, who sleepily stoop up. On the very moment he recognized Roger, he was at Bob’s side, helping him. He was actually as much helping as was someone taking the pulse and checking the vital signs of another man while said man was being held like an overgrown bride. Finally Mac seemed grimly satisfied by the results of his checking and the both of them took Roger to the cot, Cavendish having woken up in the meantime. They laid Roger down as gently as Mac could, as quickly as Bob could. 

They heard Cavendish whisper “Oh my God…” behind them, and Bob took a few steps back to allow Mac more space at his friend’s side. 

Bob tried to collect his thoughts then. What had happened was… unexpected to say the least. He was disappointed to not have been able to see outside, yet, what had he really expected? At least, he had not anticipated Roger to be thrown back into the cell like a parcel of meat. In his head, Roger would have walked back in. He was too proud to be a rag doll. 

He looked at Roger then. He was in fact unconscious, his face the same as before the escape, save for a split lip and purplish circles under his eyes. His hair was indeed wet, and Bob could see that his shirt was wet too. He could nearly see the skin through the white fabric. It was strange… he had imagined more bruises. More blood. There was no clear sign of a beating, nothing. His clothes were not even torn. Mac was holding his hand, his thumb lightly caressing Roger’s knuckles. Cavendish whispered:

“How long has it been exactly?”

“About two or three days, if I counted right,” answered Mac. Cavendish took a sharp intake of breath and frowned. Mac put a messy strand of hair back in its place, and added, “I hope he does not wake up soon.” 

There was something amiss for Bob. The two others were talking about something, yet he missed the reference. What had happened? _What could have they done to leave him apparently unscathed?_ It must have been written crystal-clear on his face, because Mac said, getting up and taking a step back from Roger’s side: “He needs to sleep to recover. They must have been depriving him of sleep on top of everything else for the last two days, and we didn’t get much rest while on the run.”

The picture was beginning to form itself in Bob’s mind, yet Mac went on, “Each time your body is too tired and fall asleep or faints on its own accord, they find a way to wake you up. Icy water. Kicking. Burning-- use your imagination. You’d rather not know anyway. He must be too exhausted or weak now to be very useful to them, or else they would not have brought him back.”

Having said that, Mac processed to remove Roger’s shirt. He then took up the coat that he had thrown several hours -days- ago on the floor, and covered his friend’s now bare chest, his fingers lingering over Roger’s collarbones. He draped the wet shirt at the foot of the cot to help it dry. 

For a long time then, Roger did not move. Mac sat motionless by his side, watching him. Finally, Bob asked Cavendish to teach him the rules of the Battleship game. 

Bob lost a game. Won another one. Mac was dozing off by Roger’s side, still holding his hand. Bob lost again. He was getting sleepy too, and would not have minded a second helping of dusty bread. 

From time to time, Mac would again feel Roger’s pulse, check signs while muttering to himself about fever and irregular heartbeat.

They heard footsteps again, stopping in front of the door. Nothing then. Bob and Cavendish were standing alert, ready for the door’s opening. Mac had instinctively jumped up at once, standing straight beside Roger as if to shield him from the outside. 

They waited for the door to open, one minute, two, five, ten? 

Bob was beginning to believe that they had had a collective hallucination, and was beginning to relax again, when the door was finally unlocked. 

Two SS soldiers went in, one visibly of higher rank. The second one had his weapon out. The first one swept his eyes over the cell, his gaze falling on Roger, still unconscious. A feeling of dread crept up Bob’s back. He might not have liked Roger, still, the look on the SS’s face was frightening. The SS officer went further in the room, taking his pistol out and nudged Roger’s side with it. Roger did not react at all, and this seemed to displease him, who then looked in turns at Bob, Cavendish and Mac. He seemed to be lost in thoughts, and swiftly left. 

“He’ll come back,” said Mac. “For one of us, I’m afraid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and honestly, I cannot help but be amused that I decided to publish my over-long confinement fic right into the covid-19 pandemic. The irony is not lost on me. So don't be like our protagonists, wash your hands and stay safe! :*


	7. Chapter 7

Of course, Mac was right, and less than one hour had passed when that SS came back. This time there were three other soldiers with him. This SS, Bob thought, must have liked suspense because again, he let a few minutes pass in an uncomfortable silence before gesturing for Cavendish to follow him. 

Bob felt his heart tighten in his chest when the door closed. Who could have wished for any human being to go through this? Not him. If anybody had a tad of empathy left in his heart…

For some time, Bob wondered what kind of questions they could have been asking Cavendish, if any. He tried not to wonder what the Gestapo could have been doing to him at this moment. Bob was thus lost in his thoughts when he heard Roger stir. 

Bob looked at him then, to see if he had awoken. Roger did no longer look unconscious, deep into a statue-like coma, but simply asleep. He had moved, a limp hand falling off the cot, his head turned to the side, facing the wall. His breathing had changed too. Bob supposed that it was a good sign. The small smile on Mac’s lips assured him that it was a good sign. 

Hours passed again, and sometimes Roger muttered in his sleep, sometimes his limbs would shiver. Mac, the ever watchful nurse, checked if Roger’s shirt was dry, and, with a corner of his own sleeve, wiped from time to time the sweat beading on his friend’s forehead. 

Bob tried then to imagine what would have happened if he had been the one in this situation with Colin? Would Colin take care of him like that? Would Bob, if Colin was lying there, take care of him? Yes, they both would have. They would have been there for each other, and Bob realized then how much he missed it. The companionship of a best friend he could trust with his sleep and life. Yet, he was not an egoist, and he was not able to wish for Colin to be in his situation, even if that meant that the two of them might not see each other again. 

Bob had been dozing off for a few minutes when Roger sat up silently. Mac was by his side at once, handing him his shirt. Roger was dressed in a matter of seconds, and Bob noticed that he was also wearing Mac’s coat –Mac had urged him to put it own with a disarming smile that could rival even Bob’s. 

Roger’s face was a hard-set mask, yet he cracked half a smile when he finally noticed Bob.

“Hello Hendley.”

“Hello Roger.” _Well, at least for the moment he_... What did Bob fear exactly? Yes, they had not been on the best terms before the escape, but that did not mean that they would not be civil towards each other now. It had been a one time incident, nothing to worry about. _Besides Roger was right then, was he not?_

Taking a few steps closer to Bob, Roger said:

“I’m sorry that the Gestapo decided to throw you here. I must admit that it came to me as quite a surprise when I learned it.”

 _Wait, when did he_ … Then, Bob remembered what Mac had told him earlier on. The both of them had been asked questions about him.

“I’m sorry to be here too. I was not planning on getting recaptured.”

Roger smiled again at that. His usual smile. Bob really hoped that he did not hold a grudge against him. For sure, Bob had not forgotten the harsh words directed at his Colin, yet he promised himself to try to do his best to get along. 

“Oh I’m sure you did not. Anyway… How managed Colin?” 

Yes, Roger was still the same. Straight to the point and as delicate as a maiden. 

“Quite splendidly. He survived in great shape.” 

“Great. I’m sincerely glad he did.” 

Bob did not believe him, yet he smiled. _Be nice._ Supposedly satisfied with his answers, Roger went then to see Mac, who was sitting on the cot, looking down, _guiltily_ if Bob dared to think about it. Or was he just lost in thoughts? 

“Are you okay?” Roger asked.

After a few seconds, Mac finally looked up and nodded. “And are _you_ okay?” 

Roger leaned against the wall, avoiding the question. “We need to brainstorm. As soon as they find out that I’m up, they’re going to come back. From the look of it, I’ll suppose that they will stop being nice.”

“Hmm… Yeah, I suppose so too. We’ll see how Denys is when he comes back.”

“Poor chap. I hope he won’t crack,” said Roger, who finally sat by Mac’s side. 

“I don’t think he will. He is sturdier than he looks,” answered Mac with a smile. 

Well, sturdy would not exactly have been the term used by Bob to describe Denys Cavendish, but Mac and Roger had known him for longer than him. Also, one of the many things he had learnt during his stay as a prisoner of war was never to underestimate a proper looking, stiff upper-lipped Englishman.

When the two fell silent, Bob leaned against the door. He did not feel like sitting on the cot while Roger and Mac were there, obviously busy thinking, knee and thigh and hip and shoulder touching. Bob settled on watching them from afar, and the show was entrancing. 

They were silent, and from time to time one would move his head, his hand, so close to each other, and their eyes would meet for a split second. Bob could imagine a strand of thought being shared through that look. They did not need to talk, and when they did, it was in hushed tones, the words not even having a meaning for Bob. 

It took him several minutes to understand that they were in fact not speaking English, but a language that sounded kind off Eastern European. It could have been French maybe? Not that French was Eastern European but Bob thought he recognised a few words now that he focused on it… 

_What they are saying must be far too secret to use English… or maybe they just don’t want me to hear! Could they be afraid? Afraid that I’d talk_ … Would Bob talk? He did not really know. He had nothing to say, and that way, he could not say anything. He was sure of that. 

Yet, when the guards brought back Cavendish, bleeding, beaten up, the answer became clearer. 

Bob was not sure of anything anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, feel free to leave comments, they make my day, and stay safe!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! enjoy! ~

When he went back in, Cavendish was at least standing on his legs, yet the only word that could describe the state he was in was: _messy_. 

His hair was dishevelled, and there was blood on his face and several traces of shoe soles on the dark fabric of his suit, close to the spine and stomach. Bob was also sure that there were things that he could not see, more things like the burn on the collarbone he caught a glimpse of when Cavendish gingerly took off his jacket. Like the round burn on the back of his hand.

“Oh dear boy…” said Roger upon seeing Cavendish, gesturing for him to come sit down on the cot. Cavendish complied, sitting down with an exhausted sigh. “Mac’s going to check you up.”

Cavendish nodded, and said in a low, raspy voice, “They gave me quite the going over Sir. They’re so naïve… underestimated me.” 

Roger smiled grimly at that. There was some pride gleaming in his eyes. He noticed Bob then, who was happy doing nothing and looking at them from the door, and asked him to come closer. 

“Bring the water and stay here. In case Mac needs help.” 

“Okay.”

For the moment though, Mac did not seem to need help. He was lightly touching spots on Cavendish’s torso, abdomen and back, his fingers like ten smart butterflies, searching for bruises and stopping each time Cavendish suppressed a wince. 

“I will have to take your shirt off, okay?” said Mac then, and Cavendish nodded. Mac helped him take it off, and handed the garment to Bob. 

_It smells of blood._

Bob tried to avert his eyes then, out of modesty and fear and curiosity, because he could not help from glancing at the bare chest in front of him. 

There were a lot of bruises and lash marks on Cavendish’s stomach, and Bob could guess that there were at least as many of them on his back. 

If he looked up, Bob could see several burns on the collarbones. They were round and looked awfully like cigarette burns. Some were slightly bleeding, and Mac asked Bob to hand him some water and the shirt. 

Mac then tried to clean the bleeding burns, treating the one oh his hand last, and then began to examine Cavendish’s face. Most of the blood, he said, was coming from a nasty looking cut on his forehead, at the hairline, and from another on his face. To explain, Cavendish said, voice still hoarse:

“Dietrich. He wears a ring on his left hand.”

“Bastard,” muttered Roger. He had got up from the bed to give Mac and Cavendish more space.

Long minutes passed by, and Bob saw that Mac was doing a pretty good job. Cavendish’s face was clean now, and the wounds looked better if not good. 

There was only one thing that looked still alarming to Bob, other than the now dark purple bruises decorating the pale torso. The region around Cavendish’s Adam apple looked badly bruised and swollen. He must have been kicked there too, and Bob shuddered at the thought of the pain. _Talking must be so painful…_

Mac of course had noticed it. Roger too. Yet there was nothing they could do, save for waiting for it to heal. Bob hoped that Cavendish would not be taken again by their captors before he was at least partially healed. 

It must have been so painful that Mac had not touched it at all, and just asked:

“Do you think you can manage to drink a little bit?”

Cavendish nodded. Mac held his head to help him drink from the jug that Bob had handed him. He drank slowly, a few gulps, and Bob could see that swallowing too, was extremely painful. While he was drinking, Roger had made a bundle of Cavendish’s jacket, and after having buttoned-up his shirt again, Cavendish laid down to rest, using the jacket as a pillow. 

“Sorry to take up the whole cot…” he muttered as he closed his eyes.

Still, Cavendish did not fall asleep until a few hours later, when at last his hands relaxed and his breath slowed down to a peaceful rhythm. Bob was sorry for him, genuinely. Mac and Roger were sitting on the floor facing each other, knees touching, hands intertwined, whispering to each other. Bob tried to block out the words he heard, words about guilt, about death. Words that cared. _As if!_ He mentally scolded himself. They cared for each other, and death was all around them. It was important to hold on to those you cared about. Important to show them you cared. Bob just did not like to feel left out, he felt lonely and he was tired. 

He had been trying to count the hours since they had brought Cavendish back, but a minute passed like an hour between those stone walls. He could ask Roger and Mac, but a feeling of shame kept him from doing so. He was neither childish nor weak. He could go on without knowing the time. He could. There was light coming from the tiny window, so it was day again. Which day? It could not be April yet, could it? Knowing that was as good as knowing the exact time. 

Bob fell asleep at last, his back against the hard wall. He did not sleep well, something in his mind, a shuffling sound close by. Something that sounded like a muffled moan. 

_Probably someone having a nightmare, go back to sleep._

A chuckle _. Probably—_ Bob was fully awake now. He kept his eyes closed and his body immobile. A chuckle -any laughter- was so unnatural here. What was happening? More shuffling. Bob barely opened his eyes, the world dark and blurred by his lashes. Two silhouettes on the floor, where Mac and Roger had been moments -hours?- ago. _Oh._

Arms around each other, faces so close _Oh—_

It was difficult for Bob to decipher who was doing what, _not that I need to know._ Mouths and hands, discreet, taking advantage of the supposed sleep of the two others. Well, knowing Cavendish’s state, he would not wake up soon. Perhaps, the thought crossed Bob’s mind, perhaps they also did not care. Not that he would open his eyes more, just a tiny bit more, no, no. He could see better now, _not that I wanted to see._ He was no voyeur, although there was an appeal to that. 

An appeal explicit in Roger’s hitching breath, and Bob could see in his mind -in full colours and slow motion- Mac’s fingers leaving goosebumps on Roger’s skin, and Roger’s short fingernails leaving marks on Mac’s pale arms, the urgency of it, the indecency of Bob’s imagination. If the SS opened the door— The sound of clothing against clothing, and one of Mac’s hands was between Roger’s legs now, leaving no place for imagination anymore. Bob had never looked at them like this, not a voyeur. Never imagined them like this, _no—_

Bob hated how his body responded to the sounds. Of flesh against flesh, fabric against fabric, lips against— _stop it!_ That sensation, there was something so painfully alive about it, it was anathema in a place like this. Of course, Roger and Mac were oblivious to his suffering, breathless, and Roger’s head was drawn back, his neck taut, and Mac’s mouth was on his chest, and Bob could almost feel it, almost, Mac’s hand moving faster, Roger’s grip on his waist vice-like.

It was normal to need -crave- intimacy in these moments of pain and desperation, Bob knew it. _Still—_

Most of them were starving for more than a friend or comrade in the camp, and Bob was no exception to that. How often had he wished for a softer touch than his own hand during his time as a prisoner? Oh sure, he could have sought out someone, there were men like _that_ in the camp, but he had never tried his luck. He had pushed the matters of the flesh out of his mind, and concentrated his efforts on escaping. Some did both. _Defy the rules until you die._ Roger and Mac, Danny and Willie, painfully obvious in their gestures. _Ruthless hearts, dangerous._ More than physical release, they cared about and for each other. _Liabilities._ They took care of each other. That was perhaps the true reason why Bob had never sought any companionship beyond camaraderie. _Under any other circumstances_ — There was always the lingering fear of being discovered, the fear of punishment, but deeper, stronger, the fear of caring. _Losing a friend is hard enough._ Had Bob not learned this the hard way? _Colin—_ another soft muffled moan broke Bob’s musings, sending his thoughts straight to his loins.

Mac and Roger were embracing each other now, collapsed, so close Bob could not really see where one ended and the other begun, _it’s cliché,_ but Bob knew, he remembered how it felt. Hips against hips, foreheads pressed together, trying to reach the soul. He imagined the warmth, the escape from reality for a few blessed seconds. He was hyper aware of each little detail he should not have noticed, Mac’s long legs, shaking, tensing up. Intakes of breaths, whispered names. The desperation so raw Bob had to close his eyes again, to break the entrancing spell. Closing his ears to strangled noises and pants. To allow them that sliver of privacy. 

After what seemed to be an eternity, Mac and Roger settled down. Ragged breaths, hanging onto each other’s presence, a lifeline. Bob let a few silent minutes drop by before risking to glance at them again. Roger was sitting with his back against the wall, Mac lying on the floor with his head on Roger’s thighs, peaceful. Not a trace, all clothes on, and had Bob awoken only now, he would never have guessed. Roger was carding his fingers through Mac’s hair, _funny how you act like you’re soft when no one’s looking Roger, you’d almost fool me._ Bob closed his eyes fully, shushing his mind. Getting mean would lead him nowhere. He tried to forget about the heaviness in his groin, and after long minutes of staring at the inside of his lids and the emptiness of his mind, feeling every inch and second of his loneliness, Bob managed to fall back asleep. 

Hours later, Bob woke up with the fading memory of something warm. It took him a few seconds to remember. _Oh yes, that. Thank you, I really did not need it._ He looked left and right, but nothing had changed much. There was no more light coming from the window, _so we’re in the middle of the night,_ and Mac had moved from his position on the floor to lean against the door. Both him and Roger seemed to be listening to something. Bob heard it then in the silence. Steps. 

He looked at Mac then, who put a finger on his lips. Minutes passed. Motor noises?

Mac and Roger exchanged a look, solemn. 

“There has been movement outside for the last fifteen minutes or so,” said Roger lowly. 

“I’d say two convoys and many men walking, bikes too,” added Mac. “They took the others away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was quite a rollercoaster, I realised re-reading it that it's PACKED with information, but that's how I had to cut the chapters. Anyway I hope you enjoyed it, don't forget to comment and wash your hands!


	9. Chapter 9

“They took the others away.”

The implications behind those words was nearly too much to handle for Bob. His cellmates’ calm did not help.

How could they know that they were taking away their companions and not another bunch of prisoners? What clues did they have? Was there something they knew that Bob did not? If they were right… _then that means that they took away Colin too— Oh God please let him be safe._ If they were right, then it meant that they were all alone now. 

Bob’s hopes of being just walked back to the camp thinned down to nothing. _All alone_. He looked at Mac and Roger then, childishly and silently asking for some comfort, an acknowledgement of their fate, yet the two seemed caught in a world of their own. They were prisoners of each other’s stares, thinking. Did they have a friend who had climbed into those convoys that night? Roger did not seem to have any friends save for Mac… the SBO and Ashley-Pitt too perhaps. Everybody liked Mac though, and he reciprocated on the surface. Could it be too, that they were worried about someone? Or was it responsibility, guilt? It dawned on Bob how quickly his mind had forgotten the names of these men he had come to know, the microcosm of the camp a faraway blur as soon as he had climbed out of the tunnel. Something he had too eagerly discarded in favour of the adrenaline of escaping. 

Of course, Mac and Roger would not have forgotten. They had to remember. It was their duty to remember. How many— Well, Bob would not ask them. He sat back down, closed his eyes, and listened to the noises outside of the cell. Soon enough, Roger and Mac were back whispering.

“We’re in for the long stay then…” Roger started saying, only for his voice to trail off when he looked again at the window. 

“I’m afraid so.”

“I hope to God that I did not send them to their deaths…”

“Don’t say that.” Mac answered, reaching out for Roger’s hand, squeezing it in his own. “We all followed you freely my friend,” _well, speak for yourself my friend. “_ We’d never have got as far as we did without you Roger. The Nazis were just waiting for an excuse to get rid of everybody.”

Bob did not like their tone. In the way they were speaking, it was as if their companions were already dead and buried. That mere possibility was unbearable to Bob. He could not keep himself from joining the conversation then, saying:

“Have you thought that they might not yet be dead? That we may be wrong and that the noises we heard were not _—_ "

“I don’t think I’m wrong, Hendley,” cut Roger, but his voice was not cold, there was something, a hint of despair, of hopelessness that did not fit in. “It sounds just like them to take the men away and shoot them where nobody can see. You don’t know them like I do. You don’t know what they told me _—_ ”

It was true, Bob had to admit it. Roger had some kind of experience with the Gestapo, one that Bob was not particularly envious of. He huffed. If that was what he got for trying to talk… Roger went on, probably not caring about Bob’s hurt pride, or too caught up in his own turmoil to notice: 

“Anyway, we’ll know the truth soon enough. They won’t stop boasting about it.” 

Bob decided not to answer. He did not want to seem sulking, but the result was all the same. Yet, much to Bob’s shame, the next time that the blonde SS entered their cell, Roger faced him with a poisonous “What did you do to our men?” To which the SS answered:

“Don’t worry. You’ll join them as soon as we are finished with you.” 

He then cuffed Roger and Mac –who had barely had the time to discard his shirt to the ground when the door had been unlocked– and lead them out of the cell. On his way out, Roger exchanged a long, unreadable look with Bob. _Oh well, if he is happy believing he’s right. They did not kill them. I know it. I feel it. I’m not at all trying to convince myself._ What a game they were playing.

The door closed behind them again. Bob was tired. He was always tired. Of doing nothing, of being afraid. Of waiting. Of walking on eggshells… of not having enough space. He yearned for a smoke. He almost missed watching Roger and Mac. To fight this maddening boredom, Bob tried to do a few physical exercises. He took off his jacket and stretched his legs. Touched his toes with his fingers while standing. Thirty times. Did push ups. Lost his count around one hundred and fifty. He was sweaty and genuinely tired. Cavendish had been awake for a few minutes now, watching him, and Bob wanted to know if he could have a tiny spot to sit down on the cot to rest. However he just could not ask for that. He came closer to the cot, drank a little bit of water from the jug.

“Do you want some?” he then asked Cavendish, who nodded and was now sitting. Bob handed him the jug, and he could see that his neck was less swollen though the purple bruise still looked painful. _Should I tell him for the others?_ He felt like he had to. It was only right… Besides, Cavendish must have had friends too there. He was always hanging with the Tailor and one of the Diversion Team leaders. Playing games in the recreation hut, and there was the chorus. How many? 

“Last night, we heard noises.” _Well, that was direct._ “We suspect that they were convoys, taking the others away.”

Cavendish took a few seconds to process the information. Worry clouded his eyes more than sleepiness and he asked:

“What does Roger say?” Bob heard in the still hoarse voice that talking was no less painful than before. 

“He says they are going to be shot by the Gestapo. Mac agrees of course.”

“You don’t though.”

“No I don’t. I’m an optimist.” He cracked a smile then yawned. He was really tired. Cavendish looked at him, thinking, then said:

“I’d like to be an… optimist too. We don’t even know who made it, or how many _—”_ he coughed, drops of blood falling on his palm. A few seconds of silence dropped by, and Cavendish must have noticed Bob’s tiredness, or the way he looked at the cot. “If you want… to rest…I can move. We share.”

The idea was more than appealing, and exactly what Bob had wanted. Bob nodded, his body thanking him advance for the relative comfort of the mattress. Cavendish was really nice, offering him to share the cot. _Not something that Roger would do, no— stop. Stop it now._ Maybe, thought Bob, he should have tried to get to know Cavendish before. Maybe, he would not have found him so nice then. 

“Thank you, but I don’t want to force you. Wait, I think I have an idea.” _Got inspired?_ He sat down, using his and Cavendish’s jacket like some kind of pillow under his back and behind his neck. He was half sitting half lying down his legs dangling from the side of the cot. Once he was as comfortable as possible, he gestured to Cavendish who lied down, his head resting on Bob’s thighs. They must have formed a peculiar picture, a twisted mirror of earlier events, yet Bob did not care, the similarities ended there and it was better than to sleep on the dirty floor. He almost touched Cavendish’s mousy hair, possessed by the memory. Almost.

How many hours had passed when Bob woke up, he had no idea. A few, if the light told him anything. _Morning?_ The door was open, and a guard was looking down at them. Feeling the built up tension in his sleep, Cavendish too opened his eyes, and his body jerked back instinctively when he saw the guard, who sneered. 

“Aren’t the two of you cute like that? Sorry to bother you but,” the guard grabbed Bob by the hand and roughly cuffed him. “You’re requested.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed, and that you are staying safe :D


	10. Chapter 10

In a matter of seconds, Bob was shoved outside of the cell, and the door was closed behind them. He was forced to walk in front of the guards, and he was too afraid to pay attention to his surroundings. 

A million questions and thoughts were fighting for dominance in his brain, all more frightening by the minute. Where was he going? What would happen to him? _I don’t want to suffer! I’ve done nothing wrong It’s against the conventions! I’m not strong— well no, I’m strong, but not like that, not like them. I’m too young, I’m beautiful! Can I talk my way out of this one? I don’t want to go, no! No, please no!_

When he would be looking back on this moment in the far future, Bob would always wonder how he had managed to look so calm and composed when he was marched into a ginormous… office? It looked like an office, with desks and desk lamps and bookshelves and opened lockers full of files. It looked like an office, until Bob’ eyes fell on the back of the room. 

There, highlighted by the crude beams of a bare light bulb, Bob saw a table, and tools that were luckily too far away for Bob to understand exactly what they were. Further away, a limp body was dangling from the ceiling, the toe tips barely touching the ground. The man was hanging by his arms, which were twisted in an unnatural and most certainly excruciating position. Bob could only see his hair, fair, but not his face. As long as he did not recognise his features, doubt was allowed, it could be anybody. Maybe it was better like that. A few feet away, hidden in the shadows, there was a second man, kneeling down. He had his arms tied behind his back. Bob felt a tremor of fear in his legs. _Anybody._

_Anybody._

_Not them._

He was made to sit down on a stool facing a desk, the guard shoving him forward without ceremony. _Wow, if that isn’t rude. He only had to ask— I’d tell him everything to just go back to the cell— You just have to ask you know._

A few seconds later, the same man that had interrogated him on the day of his capture –Preissen then– sat down behind the desk. 

“So, Hendley, here we are again. For the moment, your comrades have been far from helpful,” he gestured to the two bodies in the back of the room. Bob’s blood turned cold then, and he averted his eyes at once. _Anybody—_ “But I hope that you will be more reasonable, for everybody’s good. You will just have to answer any questions that I will ask you.” Preissen fished a tin box from his pocket, opened it and extended his hand, presenting its contents to Bob. “Cigarette?”

Bob would have gladly accepted, but he looked down at his cuffed hands. 

“Oh sorry, how rude of me!” Preissen gestured to the guard, **“** **_Untie him please.”_ **

The guard then unlocked Bob’s cuffs, _wow, really? What game are they playing?_ Bob took the offered cigarette then, and not once he supposed that it could have been drugged. Preissen lighted it for him, and when the first puff of nicotine invaded his lungs, Bob felt better. He could do this. He smoked slowly, trying to enjoy the luxury. From the corner of his eye, he saw the blonde SS enter the room. He whispered a few quick words in German to Preissen who nodded and made a vague gesture of the hand. 

A few guards came forward then, and even the smell of tobacco could not keep Bob from tensing up. Yet, the soldiers walked by him, stopping in the back of the room. Bob saw them untie the two men there. Preissen, lighting himself a second smoke said:

“We’ll be more comfortable alone, don’t you think so Hendley?”

Bob did not know what to think. He tried for a second to think of a means of escape, then decided that the wood pattern on the desk was more interesting. Yet, when he heard the soldiers walk closer to him again, Bob could not suppress his curiosity and looked. 

He immediately wished he had not. Just as Preissen had suggested, the two men were _his comrades_. Two soldiers were holding an unconscious Mac under the armpits, dragging him. His whole face was bloody, and Bob could see that he had bruises all over his eyes, cheeks and mouth. He was shirtless, and Bob could see how bruised his chest was, and that his back also was more blue than beige. His arms were hanging limply, and Bob thought for a second that the shoulders looked like they were dislocated. 

Roger, on the other hand, was still conscious. His face bore the signs of a few kicks, but nothing in comparison to Mac. He was heavily limping, and Bob saw blood on his trousers, around the knee area. Also, he noticed that the scar tissue around his eye was bleeding, and the zone looked badly burned. Yet, Roger turned his head towards Bob, and growled: 

“Don’t let the bastard get at you.” 

This was so much an order that Bob really felt caught between a rock and a hard place. He wanted to answer but was afraid to anger Preissen. He did not have time to hesitate though, as one of the guards viciously kicked Roger from behind the knee, making him fall. Out of pride, Roger did not wince, did not cry out as he struggled to get up, legs visibly wobbly. Bob had let his cigarette fall to the floor. He did not like the man but that was too much. Bob was beginning to feel nauseous. The guards finally departed, and Bob was left alone with Preissen and the blonde SS, the latter being busy in the back of the room.

“Yes, it’s much better when one is all alone.”

“Sorry?” answered Bob instinctively, mentally chastising himself when he realised that he had answered. Yet Preissen only smiled, and said:

“There are much less distractions this way. You understand that we need you to be able to think clearly about your answers. It’s not like we can afford to lose much time here.”

Bob nodded. He knew that his interrogator did not expect nor want an answer, but if he showed them that he was cooperative… _Whatever works._

For the next hour, two hours or more, Bob then answered petty questions. Things that seemed harmless, like his name or when he had met Roger. They asked for the story of his last escape several times. They also read reports to him, containing information that he was supposed to know, yet had no memory of. Bob was getting confused by all the questions. Most of the time he did not remember, or he did not know the answer. The light scraping of Preissen’s pen on a sheet of paper did not help at all with his concentration. Over time, he noticed that the light was brighter, the desk lamp having been directed at his face. He blinked once, twice. He felt as though his brain was buzzing, and he lost the count of time for good. 

To be entirely honest with himself, he had not imagined it to be like that. Maybe it was just the beginning, maybe it was all part of the plan. 

After an indefinite moment of silence, Preissen said:

“Well, Americans are definitely more cooperative than the English. Still, some of your answers seemed quite incoherent. Also, I still not believe that you had no special mission, especially since you were traveling with a Photographic Aerial Reconnaissance Interpreter. Maybe, maybe we should ask him. What do you think of this?” 

“Wait! What?” _No no no no no no no! Colin is not here anymore! Is Colin somewhere here? They won’t hurt him? They can’t! “_ But _—_ but he has been taken away with the others! He’s not here anymore!” _Is he?_

Preissen looked pleasantly surprised. “Who on Earth told you that?”

“A guard. One of your men. Roger also, we _—_ we heard _—_ ”

“You don’t have to believe every rumour you hear Hendley. Especially not coming from Bartlett or from some brainless members of my staff.” 

The amiable tone in the Gestapo agent’s voice made Bob forget about common sense for a second. And in that time, insidious thoughts crept into his mind, corrupting what he believed to be true or false. He was in a state of utter confusion, nothing made sense anymore. Still, it was nicer to believe that maybe Colin was still here. Because otherwise Roger might have been right. Because now, now that he was laid by the blonde SS into the back room to “see if he could remember some other things,” he had again something to protect. A reason to stay silent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter, stay safe, stay inside, and see you next week!


	11. Chapter 11

The back of the room was lit by a bare light bulb, and the crude white light was giving each object exaggerated shadows. Bob’s eyes could not remain fixed on the same spot for more than a second, and the more he saw, the more he was feeling dizzy. The primal fear for his life had come back, hitting him at full speed. He wanted to walk back, back to the desk, back to the cell. Back home, safe. Still, he walked on, trying his best to forget about the SS, about the crushing, cutting tools on the table. He tried to forget about the state Roger and Mac were in earlier… _and wait!_ _Are those electric cables?_

From the other side of the room, Bob heard a phone. Faraway words exchanged in German. He willed his spirit to leave his body now, now before the SS began to tie him to a chair. It was too late.

_How on earth did I manage to get here? What went wrong? What did I—_

He cried out as an unexpected blow fell on his ribs, emptying his lungs of air and his brain of thoughts. 

“I am going to ask you nicely for the last time. What information were you and Blythe supposed to collect?”

 _Think of a witty comeback… think…_ Bob kept his lips sealed. They would not have him like that. He had already taken a few beatings in his life, he could do with another kick. To the exact same spot, but delivered with more strength. _Is my rib broken?_ He had not cried out this time. He had not exactly expected the blow, but now all his nerves were on edge. He was on defensive mode, so tired yet more awake than he had ever been since the plane crash. A third blow fell. Bob did not move. The phone rang again. 

The next blows came quickly, with almost no time in between to allow Bob to breathe. When they finally stopped, he noticed that he was out of breath, all his torso feeling painfully numb. He was as doubled over as it was possible when one’s shoulders were tied to the back of a chair. 

His head bowed, Bob did not see the blow to his face come. He heard the crack in his nose before the pain hit him, sending his head backwards. He could feel warm blood seeping on his face, in his mouth. A second blow came from the other side. 

He would have quite a black eye the next day. _If there is a next day— Oh come on! Where has your optimism gone Bob? They will grow tired sooner or later. And they will start again the day after tomorrow._

“ **_Do not damage his mouth too much Dietrich. I have the feeling that we can get something out of this one._ **”

The blonde SS –Dietrich then- nodded, and took a few steps back. Preissen had come near them silently, watching his colleague work. 

**_“Do you think we should give him some time to rest?”_ **

Bob was trying to calm his breath. As long as they were talking, nothing would happen. Nothing would happen. He did not understand a word they were saying. They could have been discussing his death sentence or yesterday’s lunch, it would have been the same. 

**_“Not yet. He needs to be more afraid.”_ ** Harsh tones and sounds that came from too deep within the throat. How could he had thought that German could be _cute_ , when Werner had taught him one or two words, when his accent made him stutter… he should have learned German. It would have helped, in such a situation. He should have done many things… but it was too late now, was it not?

 **_“Your orders.”_ ** Dietrich then looked again at Bob, “ready to talk yet?”

“You bet I am.” _Yes, you should have definitely not said that._

“Oh, I cannot really blame you. It’s only the beginning. You’ll be more motivated soon.” 

Dietrich took Bob’s right hand then, and expertly holding his thumb, he popped the articulation out of its socket, breaking the finger in the process. Bob screamed then. He always had had delicate hands. Pain was blinding him, yet Dietrich went on, disabling two more fingers. Tears may have been falling from Bob’s eyes, mixing with the blood on his face. He did not care anymore about that. He did not even think that his brain could form words. Dietrich stepped back, brow furrowed, before breaking the last two fingers. Bob did not have it in him to scream this time.

With a simple hand gesture from Preissen, Bob was then untied by silent faceless soldiers, and brought back to the cell. It seemed to him that walking back had taken hours. When he was pushed back into the cell, he did not care who caught him. His brain could only think about one thing, which echoed over and over again. _Please, don’t make me go through this ever again._

_Oh you won’t. It will be worse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smaller chapter this time, hope you liked it!


	12. Chapter 12

Bob had his eyes closed when he had been thrown back into the cell. He only realised it when he opened them again, finding himself face to face with a worried Cavendish. 

“God… What have those bastards done to you?” 

Bob knew that the question was rhetorical. He simply leaned against the solid body that was preventing him from falling down. He closed his eyes again. He was so tired, and it hurt so bad he wanted to sleep the pain away. Cavendish seemed to have noticed that, because he half carried half gently pushed Bob to the cot. Bob was now sitting down, and he let his head rest against the cold wall. In the back of his mind, he knew that he should have told someone about his injuries. He should have at least said something. He fell asleep. 

Bob slept heavily, yet he was plagued by many nightmares. He saw Colin in his place, his perfect hands being cruelly crushed to dust. The fingers of an artist, reduced to bloody useless pulp in front of Bob’s powerless eyes. He saw himself as the one torturing Colin. Sometimes it was Werner in Colin’s place, sometimes he was the one torturing Bob, and sometimes Bob dreamt of the plane crash, seeing the sky in flames. 

When he finally woke up, body drenched in cold sweat, it took him a few minutes to realise that he was back in the cell, safe. Safe, relatively.

Bob sleepily swept his eyes over the small cell. Cavendish was now sleeping, his head resting on top of his knees and his arms around his legs, in the opposite corner of the cell. Roger was no longer in the cell, and Mac was on the other side of the cot, eyes closed but fingers tapping lightly against the mattress, as if following the rhythm of a tune.

Mac opened his eyes as soon as he felt Bob’s gaze on him, and smiled. His face was still a mess, and much to his horror, Bob saw a missing tooth darkening his smile. Bob felt that Mac wanted to tell him something, yet did not know to approach the subject. Bob decided to begin then, with something safe. Something that mattered to Mac:

“Where is Roger?” 

“They took him away when they brought you back a few hours ago. He told me you saw us being carried back to the cell. I’m sorry that you have to witness all this. I’m so sorry that you have to live through this.” The apology was truly heartfelt, and Mac suddenly got up, getting closer to him. “At least, allow me to take care of your injuries.”

“Who could refuse a pretty blonde nurse?” answered Bob with a tentative lopsided smile. In the pit of his stomach, he could still feel dread, fear. His whole body was painful, even smiling hurt his ribs and face. Yet, Mac’s apparent good mood, _probably faked_ , had warmed Bob’s heart, varnishing his fear with a ray of sunshine for a few minutes. Until reality would inexorably come crashing in. There was a reason why everybody - _almost almost-_ liked Mac back in the camp. As quiet as he could be, that man was the very definition of buoyant and nonchalant friendliness. 

“Please, tell me if I hurt you. Where did they hit? Other than your face and hand of course.”

“My ribs. It felt as if something had broken but—”

“I’ll tell you,” said Mac with a confident smile. He rubbed his hands to warm them, then unbuttoned Bob’s shirt, and took a look at the bruises. He then lightly caressed each rib that bore a mark. Bob suppressed a wince, but he could not tell if it was because of the pain or because his brain was not at all ready for someone to touch his chest. _No, not like that._ It felt quite nice, now that he thought about it… surprising at the beginning and disappointing when it stopped. _So that’s what your fingers feel like._

“Can you breathe in and out deeply?” asked Mac. Bob complied. 

“Do you feel any sharp pain?” 

Bob shook his head no. He felt a numb pain, typical of bruises, but nothing alarming. 

“I don’t think that anything is broken then. Bruised yes, but it could have been worse. You’re quite lucky. Now,” he looked closely at Bob’s nose. “I’m afraid that your nose is broken. I may know how to do one or two things, patch up this and that, but I’m no doctor _._ I’m afraid you’ll bear the mark. I can clean the area up though. It will be painful, but it’s safer.”

Bob nodded. It was better indeed, and what was a little pain now? Mac tore some part of his shirt, and, soaking it in water, he cleaned Bob’s face as gently as he could. It hurt, yet Bob felt better afterwards.

“Now your hand.” He held Bob’s right hand by the wrist, examining closely each finger which had –much to Bob’s horror- doubled up in volume, purple and swollen. “I’m sincerely sorry, but this will hurt a lot. They have been broken I fear, besides the articulations are dislocated.”

This reminded Bob of the state Mac’s shoulders had been in when he had seen him in the torture chamber. “When I saw you in _—_ in that room. Your shoulders were in a pretty bad shape. Is it _—_ is it okay now?” 

“Oh quite. Denys put them back in their right place. I still feel the pain, but I can at least move my arms.” While saying that, he had cut thin strips into the material of his shirt, and was now tenderly bandaging Bob’s hand. It was painful. _Freaking painful._ Bob felt tears fill up his eyes. He tried to hold them back, but Mac was not looking and Bob knew he would not judge him. “I can do nothing else than this. Under any other circumstances I would tell to keep them immobile, but I know that, well _—_ ”

“Yeah sure. Thanks for all of this Mac.”

“Och, no problem. We need to help each other, now more than ever. There is still water if you want to drink.” 

Bob nodded. He took the jug with his good hand, _when had it been refilled? -_ And drank a few gulps. It felt like being born again. Mac was still looking at him though. Like he silently wanted to ascertain something. _Did I talk or not? Is that what you want to know?_

Bob knew that his pride be damned, it was better to tell Mac. It was even better now that Roger was not here.

“Don’t worry, I said nothing.”

“I trust you. I knew you’d tell nothing. That’s not what is worrying me. What’s worrying me is… what _they_ told _you_.” Bob looked quizzically at Mac, who went on, “Preissen and Dietrich are smart. They might want to confuse you, to turn you against us, and why not, turn us against you. I know that you are used to be the one who manipulates others, but here, beware. We no longer have the upper hand. Beware of what is true and what is not.”

“And how am I supposed to be able to make the difference?” Bob knew that his tone might have seemed harsh, but now everything that had been told during those last few days were mingling in his head, giving him a headache. What was true, it was indeed a good question… _What is true? Is Colin here or away? Is he alive, is he dead? How could Roger know that the others? Why would the guard lie to us? Why would Preissen not lie to me?_

“I am sorry to have to say this to you, but the least pleasing something is, the most likely it is the truth.” 

Bob bowed his head. “You have no way of knowing if they really took the others away. You have no idea if they are dead or not.”

“They want to use Colin against you,” Mac sat down beside Bob. “It is true. We have no way of really knowing. Still, look at the bigger picture, try to connect the dots. It’s the only logical outcome. There is, indeed, an infinity of possibilities. But can we afford to hope?”

“Can we afford not to hope?” 

Mac smiled and took Bob’s uninjured hand in his own. “Hope is both our and their greatest weapon. As long as you know where you stand, it’s _—_ ”

Mac was cut off by a guard opening the door. Bob’s heart began to beat faster and faster _and calm down right now_ … That guard was only here to bring them a plate of greyish food, a new jug of water and collect the chamber pot. He did not even look at them as he left the cell. 

“What happened?” sleepily asked Cavendish from his corner, disentangling his arms from his legs. He got up, stretching his arms. 

“They brought luxuries,” answered Mac. Cavendish let out a dry chuckle, looking dubiously at the food.

“A luxury would be to have a shower and shaving kit. A change of clothes too.” He passed a hand through his hair and growing stubble. “What a sorry sight we make gentlemen, what a sorry sight.” 

Bob blinked. He was bewildered when he realised how the fear for his life, his fate, his comrades’ injuries had erased from his mind all the cares he could have had about hygiene and appearance. He too, was dying for a shower, now that he finally thought about it. His clothes were clinging to his already thinning frame, smelling of an expert mix of sweat, blood and dirt. _If only I had a mirror— No, I’d frighten myself._ If there indeed have been a mirror in the cell, Bob would have seen how his cheeks had, in a simple matter of days, hollowed out. He would have seen the dark circles under his eyes, brighter than make-up, even visible under the bruises. His chapped, bloody lips. He could feel his greasy hair, when he passed a tentative hand on his head. His hands trailed on his cheeks then, the unusual short coarse hair covering them, as he looked at his bloodied shirt. 

_What a sorry sight we make…_

Bob had always cared about his appearance. It was important in his line of work. A con-man can only do so much through guile and words. He needed to look charming. Who was he fooling now? 

He looked at Cavendish then, trying to reconcile the image before his eyes with the man he had met in the camp. Cavendish had always had an upper-class sense of debonair fashion, keeping his scarf pristine even when working in the tunnel. His pants always perfectly pressed and his hair groomed from the back of the neck to the tip of his moustache. 

And here they were, more drowned rats than men, slowly crawling for survival and not caring anymore about little things that had once been important.

Bob looked at Mac then. He too, was a sorry sight, his blonde hair darkened by blood and his face battered like a raw steak. Yet, the changes seemed less striking than on Bob and Cavendish. Mac still looked confident and cheerful, as if his appearance was carried on his smile and in his eyes more than on his clothes and hair. In his gestures, his soft accent… Bob promised himself to look at Roger when he would come back. Would he still see the charismatic leader who had shaken his hand in the camp’s recreation hut, so many nights ago? Or would he see a broken shell, a pale reflection of the soldier he once was? 

Lost in his thoughts, Bob leaned on his bandaged hand, and, with a sharp cry, jerked away. That had been stupid. Thinking about trivial matters could not keep you alive in such circumstances. 

The primal fear. The hunger clawing at your soul through your belly. Those were the instincts that would allow him to live. He needed to be aware of his injuries, of the others’ too. He just had to sleep, eat and survive the blows. If the Nazis had wanted to make an animal out of him, they had partially succeeded then. He would act like one, while deep inside, locked in a faraway corner of his mind, he would mourn the luxury of being clean and beautiful. Of having the small amount of privacy he had had in the camp. 

He would try not to wish for cigarettes, and bottle up the tangy aftertaste of coffee, the sweetness of chocolate. The feeling of his own hands on his body. He would hide them deep, deep in his heart, and allow his guts to take the lead. 

Bob gladly took the share of tasteless bread that Mac gave him. He chewed slowly, trying to make it last as long as possible. Fooling his stomach to feel full, since he had no idea when they would be granted food again. Washing the taste of sawdust and the grains of sand away with priceless water. 

As he finished his meal, getting ready for yet again hours of boredom and dread, he thought that those were the perfect surroundings for the funeral of his former life. The steps outside made a nice requiem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thank you for your support, ILY <3


	13. Chapter 13

Hours passed again. The three of them were sitting on the cot, and both Cavendish and Mac were humming the same tune, something that Bob thought he had already heard somewhere but could not place anymore. It may have sounded vaguely religious. Sad. He tried to move his fingers as little as he could while getting more comfortable on the cot, and was soon lulled to sleep by the two soft voices beside him.

He woke up, preferring not to remember his dreams. Mac was leaning against the door, listening to the noises outside, recording every bit of not-so-useless conversations from their guards. Every footstep. Bob’s stomach groaned. At least, the pain in his hand distracted him from the growing pit in his belly. Bob wanted to go back to sleep. When he was unconscious, deep into the blessed land of slumber, he was not bored anymore. He was afraid, but of more temporary things. Dream horrors only lasted until one woke up. 

Yet, nothing could sweep away the horrors that they were facing when the cell door opened. There was no waking up there. Bob supposed that a day had passed when the door opened again. Not heeding Mac’s advice, Bob had been hoping when he heard the key in the lock. 

Hoping that they would bring food in.

Hoping that they would bring back Roger.

Hoping that they were not coming for him. 

Of course, none of what he hoped for happened, and he was taken away yet again. 

_ Please no— I don’t want to— please— _ None of his pleas were voiced aloud. They would not have been listened to anyway. This time, Bob tried to remember the path the guards took. He was more and more afraid as they approached their destination, yet it was surprisingly not worse than the first time. There was no unknown element. He knew where he was going. He knew who was waiting for him there. 

He thought he knew what would happen to him. 

The room had not changed at all. Same lights, same floor. Preissen was not sitting by his desk, but he was at the back of the room, walking around  _ a bathtub? What the hell do they need a bathtub for?  _ The guard directly walked Bob to the back of the room. This time, he was not tied to the chair but had his arms shackled to the ceiling by the wrists. At least, his feet were resting on the floor. The guard left, retreating in the shadows of the room, and Bob was left alone. Preissen did not seem to care at all for his presence, too busy looking at his watch and walking in circles. Bob noticed then that there was a soldier there too, and, much to his horror, the soldier was holding somebody’s head under the water in the tub. The man was half-naked and had his arms bound twisted behind his back. Bob could not see his face, yet, if the sturdy shoulders and back were any sign, it could only be Roger. Preissen snapped his fingers then, and the soldier lifted Roger’s head out of the water. Bob heard him gasp for breath, and barely a few seconds later he was thrown back in, the soldier maintaining a vicious grip on his neck.  _ Poor soul. _

For how long had this been going on? How long would it go on? They would not really drown him… They could not. Bob saw the pattern repeat over and over again. Each time, Roger’s breathing was weaker, and Bob could feel his skin crawling at the mere thought of the pain and the fear of drowning over and over again. In Roger’s place, he would already be begging for mercy.  _ What a sorry sight we make. _

“So. Are you ready to be more cooperative now?” asked Preissen, his voice almost too sweet. 

“Go to hell,” spat Roger, his voice contrasting with his shaking limbs. 

His answer did not seem to please Preissen though, who gestured for the soldier to sink Roger’s head again. Preissen whispered a few word to the soldier, who nodded. Preissen then walked to where Bob was waiting. He did not talk, just watching the torture pattern from afar. After the umpteenth time -sinking, barely enough time to recover, sinking, still alive- or the hundredth, who could know, not Bob, he had not been counting, Preissen gestured for the soldier to stop. He then looked at Bob and said, his voice almost apologetic:

“This one is so tiresome. He thinks that we will not be able to make him talk. He is lucky though. Had his stupid little friend not killed Herr Khun, he would already be rotting in a shallow grave with a bullet _ — _ ”

“Lieutenant Commander Ashley-Pitt was not stupid!” roared Roger from over the tub.  _ As lively and direct as ever. Some things never change. Wait— Eric!  _ Realisation hit Bob square in the chest. He had not seen Ashley-Pitt since the train ride.

“He was my dear. He was stupid by thinking he could get away. I wonder if they took his body away from the rails before the train started. He was married, right? How old was he again?”  _ Eric— no…  _ So he was dead too. How many of them had died? To what end?

Roger did not answer, but Preissen had probably not expected him to. Even with the shadows darkening his face and the water dripping, Bob could see a boiling rage and grief forming a cloud around Roger. Preissen went on:

“I must admit I would have liked to get my hands on him. He would have paid for Herr Khun’s death. He would have suffered so much. Oh well, since I can’t have him, I have to satisfy myself with you, for now...”

The soldier pressed Roger’s head under the water again, for too many seconds.

“I wonder if he regretted following you when he died. If he realised his mistake, and the fate waiting for him,” said Preissen, his voice still dripping with honey, as Roger was trying and failing to catch his breath, coughing up water. In a few quick strides, Preissen was at Roger’s side again, and Bob saw him grab Roger’s chin, his nails digging into the skin, forcing him to look up. 

Preissen then said, his voice barely loud enough for Bob to hear: “I also wonder when it is that your dear, beloved MacDonald started to regret too. When he realised you condemned him to death. You didn’t have to escape with him, and yet you did. How selfish, yet I am not surprised. ” Roger moved his head frantically, trying to free himself of Preissen’s grip, to no avail. His eyes were wild with grief and terror, a total stranger to Bob. “I wonder if he will ever find the courage to tell you himself.” Bob’s heart constricted painfully in his chest.  _ Mac would never— _ “If you ever see him again that is.”

Preissen let go of Roger’s head,  _ answer him! Do something dammit! _ Roger did not say a word, did not move, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking.  _ Mac loves you, you know it Roger, please—  _ Ragged breaths, sobs? “Pathetic.” Preissen’s voice was laced with scorn. He kicked Roger in the ribs, but Roger remained unresponsive, collapsed on himself. “Disgusting,” Pressein added, spitting on the floor.

Preissen then walked away from the tub then, coming closer to Bob again. “ **_Resume, until he’s out.”_ ** The soldier grabbed a handful of Roger’s hair, and pressed his head under the water, again and again. Preissen then watched the scene with a kind of satisfied grin for a few seconds, then looked again at Bob. 

“Enough with him, don’t you think so Hendley? Where were we the last time we met? Ah yes! You were going to tell us _ — _ ”

“Nothing. I have already said everything.” 

“Tsk tsk… I don’t believe you. Oh, I see that you friends took care of your hand. That’s cute. Which one did it?”

“Why does it matter to you?” spat Bob. Mac’s words were echoing in his head, mixing with Bob’s voice.  _ We no longer have the upper hand. Confuse you. Turn you against us, and why not, turn us against you now? _

“Come on Hendley, there’s no need to be harsh. I was only making small talk.”  _ Confuse you. _ “And since you don’t look like you are in a good mood, let’s begin.” 

Preissen gestured to another soldier – the same that had brought Bob in-, and said soldier began to undress Bob, unbuttoning his shirt, tugging his pants off. Instinctively, Bob closed his eyes. He felt something cold touch his ankle, but could not open his eyes anymore. He could not see.  _ No no whatever it is no no please don’t _ . He could not bring himself to watch his own undoing. 

“You look so tense,” commented Preissen, “I am really sorry to have you in such a state.”

Bob dared to crack an eye open, and saw that Preissen was now wearing gloves. He closed his eyes again.  _ No… _

He felt something cold against his chest, under his right nipple. A few seconds passed, and Bob felt the worst pain he had ever experience course through his body to his feet, burning him alive. He screamed, his heart breaking at the sound. 

Most of his mind shut down. He was pain, and nothing else mattered in the world. He screamed until his voice was hoarse, until he felt like dying. Until the smell of burnt flesh made him pass out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It's one that I remember I enjoyed writing too much, and I actually did go back to it and added stuff, and edited out over things... anyway.   
> Also, I wanted to thank you for the love and support I have been getting recently on this fic, it really means a lot to me.   
> Stay safe, and until next week!


	14. Chapter 14

As he was drifting in and out of unconsciousness, Bob hoped that when he would open his eyes, he would see the walls of the cell. 

Yet, when the icy water hit his face, forcing his eyes open, Bob was still in the torture chamber. He took in his surroundings as quickly as he can, surprisingly alert because of the cold. Nothing had changed much… besides the fact that Roger was not by the tub anymore. 

_ Isn’t it much better when one is all alone? _

Bob shook the thought away. A quick look at his torso allowed to see several angry red spots. He had imagined… worse. How could something so painful leave only so few marks? 

Preissen, who was sitting at the table, his fingers hovering over the tools, must have read his face because he said:

“You took your time to wake up. You know, I can control the current and voltage. Maximum pain and fear, minimum injuries, I learned this in France, these bastards have imagination when it come to keep their fish fresh. Yes, we can go on for a longer time. For as long as we need you alive.”

“Oh God _ — _ ” whispered Bob, closing his eyes again to shield himself from reality. 

“I have been gentle, you know. Had I put the wire a foot lower on your body…”

_ Oh God oh God oh God—  _ “Why don’t you believe me?” It had come out as a desperate moan, much to Bob’s shame. Yet, he could not really blame himself. He never had a great tolerance for pain, and never thought that he would have been able to survive this long.

“Why?” His tone was quite condescending now, like a teacher scolding a dumb pupil. “Give me a reason to believe you. Your behaviour is more than suspect, and you’ve been working, if not friends, with a criminal.”

“We are not criminals. We are officers doing our duty.” Bob was growing tired of this nonsense, now that he had a little bit more energy. He should never have been here. It should never have happened to him…

“It depends on your point of view. My duty, for example, is to make sure that you talk and are telling the truth.”

“I am. Now, I could lie to you. I could tell you many things just to make the pain stop,” _ even if I know you would not stop. _ “What would you do then?”

Preissen smiled lightly, disentangling the electrical wire from Bob’s foot. “Oh, we’d ask  _ him _ , to see if your answers match.”

_ Him? Who? Who is he talking about? No, not Colin, it’s impossible! Then it means he’s alive— but then he’s being tortured too— wait wait here Bob. He’s trying to manipulate you. Calm down… remember what Mac told you… if it’s the least pleasing thing possible, then it must be true.  _ Bob saw his dream come alive in front of his eyes again. He saw Colin tied in his place, he imagined how it must have felt, not being able to see, but  _ feeling  _ everything. Never knowing where the pain would come, where his interrogator was. Even if he was alive, this was the worst scenario possible. This was worse than death.

Bob bowed his head. “So… you really kept him alive.” Those previous days, he had only wished for one thing,  _ besides for the pain to stop, no? _ He had wished for Colin to be alive. Not to be a dead body forgotten in the middle of nowhere. And now, now a dark web was tightening around his heart. He almost saw it. The guards, taking most of the recaptured prisoners away, to a certain death or to the camp. Yet, they would draw a few useful names. People to keep, maybe in the cell adjacent to theirs. He wished for Colin to be dead then. Anything as long as his friend did not suffer… But if some had not been taken away, who else did they have then? Had they lied to Roger about Ashley-Pitt’s death? 

Too caught up in his sullen thoughts, Bob did not see the satisfied smile on Preissen’s lips. 

“Maybe… we should proceed the other way around. See if he is more talkative than you.” 

_ No. Me, not him. No—  _

“No! Don’t! ”

“It’s too late sweetheart,” he snapped his fingers. “Untie this one.” 

Bob did not even react when two soldiers untied him, throwing his clothes back to him. His arms were numb, his wrists raw and painful for having been cuffed all day. He did not care. He limped back to the cell, and each time the foot to which the wire had been tied touched the ground, a white hot pain coursed through it to his brain. He did not care. His mind was anesthetized by some thick, sticky cotton of uncalled-for guilt and unforgiving grief. 

_ It’s too late… Colin… forgive me.  _

Upon he was back in the cell, Bob did not search for the others. His gaze did not leave the floor, and he sat down in a corner near the door in a helpless heap, burying his head between his knees. 

He did not notice the worried glances that Cavendish and Mac were throwing his way. He did not notice when, a few minutes later, Mac put his coat on his shivering shoulders before going back to the cot, “maybe we should give him some time alone…”

_ Colin… _

Bob did not notice nor would he have cared that Roger was not in the cell. Anyway, he would never have noticed the light flicker out in Mac’s eyes when the door had opened, when he had seen who had been brought back, and who was still not there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter :) Thank you once again for your love and support, I love you :)  
> Stay safe, and see you in a week for the next chapter!


	15. Chapter 15

Time passed, it always does and always will. Bob did not care anymore, and his immediate thoughts were crystallized in a black eternal instant where time did not matter. Soon, reality would not matter anymore.

 _He’s lying to you. He wants you to suffer, and he’s succeeding! I always knew Colin was alive I always knew it–_

“Are _—_ burns?” _It’s my fault he should never had left the camp I should have listened to Roger oh my God I should have listened to him it’s his fault his fault my fault my fault!_

“ _—_ afraid so,” _Why couldn’t he be okay, why couldn’t he die?_ “That’s not _—_ worry...me though.” _He must be suffering so much right now… why?_ “Withdrawn. _” Think Bob think! It’s only another means of torture. They are not telling the –_

“You don’t think it is _—_ ” 

“No _—_ wor...than that.” _Truth._

“ _—_ Shock” _They are… I know it. Shut up, I know it_. 

“He’ll never _—_ ” _Listen here. Colin is fine. They put him back with the others. He was taken away with the others. Mac told you so… who? Roger’s lapdog!_ _He’ll realise the truth, and he’ll regret too!_

“I don’t know _—_ ” _Maybe, but he knows everything… He always knew everything… He would never lie to me._

“Besi...you _—” You know how lying works. It is your craft…_ “—to Roger?” 

“—No...might want to–” _No no no it was in his eyes. It was the truth!_ “—Us.” _The truth!_ “—he’s dead—” 

“—the other...around.”

“—precious.” 

N _obody’s too precious for them… They do not care… They do not see the precious things… I should have seen, I should have protected him when there was still time._

“Do you think he–” _They never care never. I hope they take me back, oh God make them take me back as long as they do not make him suffer!_

“—hears us, but—” 

“—his mind.” 

The part of Bob closest to the surface saw someone who had to be Mac looking at him, talking to him several times, but never did he understood the words that had been spoken. Funny how he could hear snippets of conversations sometime, but not when he was he was talked to directly.He must not have answered, if the worried and disappointed blue eyes were any sign. He felt two surprisingly strong arms pick him up and carry him to the cot. He wanted to struggle, but his body was not obeying anymore. Bob felt the coat around his body being rearranged, he felt someone nudge his lips open to force a few water drops down his throat. He wanted to be alone and listen to the silence of his thoughts, let himself fall down the void in his head. His mind had been torn in two, and he felt in the space between two seconds as if he was floating above his catatonic mindless body. The two usual voices that did not belong to him had stopped talking, or he could not hear them anymore. There was unease in the air, he could smell it but it was nothing in comparison to the overpowering stench of guilt coming from within. _You are too tired to think clearly sleep now._

_Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, it’s better when you’re all alone in your sleep._

Silence then began to fill Bob’s brain, a blessed silence.

At an unknown point in time, the door to the cell opened, yet he did not care about the guard entering. He did not care that nobody was brought back, but one taken away. All of Bob’s thoughts had stopped talking at the same moment. His lids closed, a shutter separating him from the cold world. Bob fell into a fitful sleep, the legs walking in circles in the cell, fateful drums in his nightmares. 

At some point, Bob had to open mouth under the pressure of too hot fingers. Again, he drank without tasting the cold fluid pouring down his throat, down his chin. 

He felt arms enclose his body, and heat engulf him. Why was he so tired? _Why do you refuse to work brain? Why can’t I think anymore, why am I so numb… what is wrong with me?_ Bob fell back to sleep then. Slowly, his body was trying to fight the physical injuries. His survival instincts needed to heal his body in order to heal his mind. His heart needed another shock to get him out of this never ending battle. In his dreams, the voices spoke again. _What is true. What is not. How do you want to know the truth when you are prisoner between four walls? How do you want to be certain of anything when you choose not to?_

Bob felt like he woke up. Again. This time he did not drink, no one to force him to, the person who had helped him sitting at a safe distance from him, looking lost. Was it the same person? Bob was not so sure anymore, perhaps if he could open his eyes...

The door opened again. How long had it been? Had time stopped ticking and had the earth stopped turning? Bob saw the sitting figure rush to the side of the person who had been brought back. He saw movement, blurring the world around him. It was strange, how life could seem to go fast when one stood as spectator, outside of his own body. Bob closed his eyes. There was blood, there was the smell of suffering. He willed himself to hibernate. Yet, the voices had come back, and they were not going away this time. Frantic talking. He saw a red flower bloom on the whitish mattress, and soon there was a whole poppy field. _Is someone dying?_

Bob heard someone chuckle. The sound seemed unnatural here, like falling glass all around him. He had tried to concentrate on the words that followed, _why are they talking about Colin? Are they even talking about Colin? What’s happening? But he is dead, would they lie to me? Why does everyone lies to me?_

Fabric being torn. 

Too hot.

Were they still beside him? _Who?_

Time passed. It always does, and Bob’s mind registered a few eternities later something that sounded like a victory cry. Unless it was a hopeless sob. 

Bob felt two hands lift his face up. A pair of river eyes looking at him. 

“ _—_ hold _—_ ”

He did not have to answer… _I don’t want to answer. Answering got me here in the first place, I suppose_. He’d listen though. If only that person would speak.

Bob tried to hold on, to look into those eyes, to answer the words he could not hear, but the void was too strong and he fell again. A memory flickered as the darkness engulfed him again as if through a window. A sharp pain soon dulled to nothing, as he fell blissfully asleep.

The ghost of a smile. 

Someone holding him.

_“I am here, right? I am staying with you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have posted this chapter at 11:45PM, but it was still on time haha! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading, see you next week and thank you for your support :)


	16. Chapter 16

Bob woke up feeling refreshed. The sun had not yet risen, no light could be seen from the cracks in the blinds. Surprisingly enough, Colin was already awake, his nose stuck in a book, a cup of tea getting cold on the table beside him. Bob went to wash himself up in the hut’s common washroom. He liked it when almost nobody was up. Half an hour left before roll call, maybe a little bit less. Time enough to hide anything that needed to be hidden, time enough to scheme. Bob was getting used to this, the Luftwaffe’s stern hospitality. Back in their room, Colin offered him some tea. Bob accepted without really paying attention, not that he liked tea that much… but getting along with one’s bunkmate was important. He would have never thought upon seeing the small man now serving him tea that he would have such a key role for the organisation. He would have never thought that Colin would grow on him so much in so little time.

Bob waited a few minutes for the tea to cool down, then sipped the bland beverage, letting his thoughts wander away. Today would be a busy day. He had a meeting scheduled with MacDonald, about the gift food, and he was sure to expect a few requests for materials. He carded a hand through the hair at the back of his neck. So many responsibilities already. He was happy with that, though. He had been quickly accepted as part of the organisation, and was glad he could do his part. It felt nice, to be a part of the whole. They would be great. Together, they had a chance of going home. Before his thoughts could lead him into the dangerous nostalgia of home, the blinds to his window were opened. Bob got up, his cup of tea finished. He put on his uniform vest, ready for roll call. It would only be a few unpleasant minutes after all. 

Nobody caused any trouble, and roll call was indeed over after a few minutes. Back to his room, Bob opened the window, letting in the fresh air. It had rained during the night, making the compound muddy and giving the air that fresh aftertaste, so distinctive, water filtered through the pine forests. Bob inhaled the air, closing his eyes. He felt a pang of something in the pit of his stomach, something he could not describe, a feeling gone as suddenly as it had come. The room was empty. Where was Colin now? Bob decided not to delve too much into it and tidy up his closet to distract himself. Mac would be here anytime now. 

A light knock on the door proved him right. Mac went in, carrying a wooden box. He was all dolled up and pretty in his uniform, Bob thought, his fingers itching to spirit the blue cap away from his head. Bob had never looked at Mac like this before, never taken the time to notice the little things and to imagine what he could not see. They saluted each other, and before Bob could think too much about the way his name rolled off Mac’s tongue, about Mac’s piercing eyes, the box was opened in front of him. 

“Now, let’s see…” Mac seemed concentrated on his work, probably juggling with too many thoughts and tasks. “ Biscuits, two packets, coffee, two tins, bovril, one jar, cigarettes, six packets...” 

The list went on as food items and other goods piled up on the table. There was something almost indecent to it, and Bob could not resist adding up his own findings to the pile, sparkling interest and a smile. Funny how Bob had not paid more attention to that smile before. They were almost like school kids comparing a collection of trinkets. 

“Oh yes, and Dutch chocolate. Two bars.” Mac fished the two bars of chocolate from the box, his fingers lingering on the wrapping. Mac looked at him, the ghost of the smile still on his lips and in his eyes. “Under any other circumstances I would have been tempted to keep them to myself.” He gave the bars to Bob then, their fingers lightly brushing. Time stopped for a second, static in Bob’s ears. Electricity in his right hand. Something in Mac’s eyes changed, like flickering lights.

Bob blinked, and it was as if nothing happened. Mac was smiling again,  _ that smile. Those eyes. _

“That cleans up the gift food for the entire organisation.” The sound of Mac’s voice definitely brought him back to the present. He closed the box, capturing some of the room’s light inside “Now, the first thing we need is the new form of travel permit. The forgers have no idea what they look like and they can’t work without it.”

Bob listened, but found it difficult to concentrate. That fleeting feeling, almost as if the world was half a second ahead of Bob’s perception. “I’ll see what I can do.” A generic, genuine answer. 

“And of course any other identity cards, personal papers, documents you can put your hands on.” All work and no fun. “Anyway, put ‘em to work Bob.” 

Bob smiled at the mention of his name, quickly answering. “Right.”

Mac picked up the box then, his lips forming a warm smile. “We’ll be great together. Good luck.” With these words he was out of the cell, leaving Bob all alone. 

_ We’ll be great together.  _ Bob shook his head. He had work to do, he would not want to disappoint Mac’s smile. 

As he was tidying up his new hoard of goods, the door to Bob’s room opened again. Bob did not have to turn around to  _ know _ it was Mac. 

“Oh yes, I forgot,” Mac said, and Bob felt enticed to look at him. To look at that smile. “You know you can always count on me Bob, right? I know that you’re not new to escaping, and that you and Blythe are quite close now, but just in case _ — _ you know, getting into the organisation and so on, knowing everyone, in case it’s difficult, or if you have any problems with anything or anyone, just come to me. I’ll be glad to lend a hand, or an ear.”

Bob smiled back. He had not expected that, but it felt nice to have someone watch out for him. Not that he needed it... “I’ll think about that, thank you. Don’t worry about me.”

“Och, I don’t worry,” Mac answered. “But it’s always nice to know you’re not alone, isn’t it?”

Before Bob had the time to answer, Mac closed the door and left. Bob’s eyes were locked on the door, a weird feeling creeping up his back. What had Mac said exactly?

_ Isn’t it much better when one is all alone?  _

The voice echoed against the walls of the room,  _ all alone—  _ Bob wanted to open the door,  _ all alone— _ open the window,  _ all alone— _ the voice was stifling,  _ all alone—  _ choking him.  _ Isn’t it much better when one is all alone?  _ The voice was sucking the light out of the room, he had to leave, to escape, but his legs were too heavy. The room was darker and darker, he wanted to cry for help but no sound came out of his throat. Something was wrong. 

_ Where am I? What is this place?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, feel free to tell me all about it in the comments. Also, since I have been reworking this fic a little bit, there might be typos and mistakes left, I am very sorry about it ^^  
> See you next week!


	17. Chapter 17

_ Where am I? What is this place?  _ _ Where is everybody? Why am I still here? _ Bob came back to life. Slowly, oh so slowly. People had names again, although he remembered them a second too late. The outside had a shape again, and was inhabitated by many familiar faces, though blurry in the distance. He heard a clock’s tick far away. In the air, the stench of blood replaced the smell of rain. Bob came back to life. He had managed to remember every word, every action that had led to his mental breakdown. He had put the puzzle pieces in place, and now it made sense. It made sense a little bit too much. 

It made sense that since the first night, since he had arrived, he had shown that he cared for Colin.  _ When Dietrich had threatened him with the gun… they must have read it on my face.  _ In his voice, at every innuendo from his tormentor, his hope had been transparent. He had been an easy target, the kind of target that he was used to subdue. He was ashamed of himself. Ashamed to have been weak, to have not been able to listen to logic. To have not listened to his friends. 

_ I guess that I don’t know anything anymore now. Maybe, it’s safer to stick with my first impression. Colin is safe. Far away, back in the camp. Safe, away from me and pain. Safe in another world.  _

Bob breathed out. He was ready to face the world again. He had bottled up the feelings, dried his eyes in his sleep. He opened his eyes, and the world welcomed him back.

The cell was the same, every details Bob did not remember were there. The walls might have been a little bit whiter than in his memory,  _ a trick of the light. _

Bob was lying on the cot, Mac’s brown coat draped over him. Beside him, Cavendish was resting, eyes closed, his forehead sweaty and skin pale. Bob noticed the bandages –probably what remained of Mac’s shirt sleeve- around his head. Some spots around his lips and eyes looked also badly burned. Perfect, roundish burns eating the flesh away. Cigarettes. They looked viciously painful.

Mac was leaning against the door, eyes closed, still as a statue. For a second, he looked too clean for their surroundings, but as Bob blinked everything was perfectly normal again. Mac was dirty, shirtless -the garment torn to shreds to wash and dress their wounds- and he looked exhausted. Mac opened his eyes then, and without a word he was at Bob’s side. Still, there was something about him, was it a glow? A shine in his hair, something out of place.  _ This smile, those eyes.  _

“Hello Bob,” Mac looked at him warily. Some horrible thought crossed Bob’s mind. Mac had not smiled. 

“How long have I been…?”

Relief seemed to wash over Mac, de-aging him. 

“Oh thank God.” He smiled, then quickly hid it, “about seven days.”

_ It felt like… hours. An eternity. I remember… dreaming.  _ Bob did not know what to say. He knew, deep inside, that there was nothing to say, but he felt like he owed an explanation, an apology of some sort. Yet, Mac simply smiled again, and said:

“I’m glad you’re with us again. I had begun to lose hope…” He put a hand on Bob’s forehead, and then removed the coat to examine the burns. He hummed to himself, satisfied. He then tentatively took Bob’s injured hand in his own, and Bob suppressed a wince when Mac tightened the makeshift bandage. 

“Your fever has decreased. All those days, you were in shock, unresponsive. I had to force you to even drink. I really thought we would lose you…”

“I thought I had lost myself. I’m sorry.”

Mac’s smile changed a bit and, oh so very awkwardly, he took Bob in his arms. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You must have felt so alone. What they did… We would all have reacted like you in a similar situation.”

_ Thank you for the lie… but I don’t think so.  _

“I… has it really been seven days?”

“More or less. You know how time passes here. Do you need something in particular? Something to drink, food, anything?” 

Bob shook his head. He did not feel like swallowing anything right now. Mac then turned his attention to the still-sleeping Cavendish, checking on his wounds. He then got up from his crouching position. 

“If you do not need me anymore…” He took a few steps back, his hand reaching for his forehead as if to fight a sudden dizziness. “I think I’ll…”

Mac then sat down, crushed by exhaustion. He laid down on the floor as if he did not care, falling asleep at once. Bob looked again around the cell. Roger was still not here.  _ Seven days… seven days… Had he come back? Was he alive? We would all reacted like you in a similar situation. Under any other circumstances... _

Bob yawned. His foot was still painful, but as he got up from the cot, he could at least use it to support his weight. He walked a few steps, his limbs stiff from having stayed unmoving. He tried to move his fingers, but regretted it as soon as white hot pain coursed through him. There was something to be said about pain though. It felt real enough, coursing through his whole body like an electric current.

Bob would have wanted to put Mac on the cot, but he did not trust his hand. He could also try to wake up Cavendish to ask for help, but the quick look at his face was enough to tell him that it was not a good idea. He would have to wait then. Still, in the meantime, Bob took the coat and tried to cover up Mac’s chest.  _ He’s going to catch his death, half-naked on the floor…  _

Bob then resumed his silent watch routine. How long had it been since he had not leaned against the door, listening to the faint noises outside? He promised himself to wake his cell-mates up when he would hear guards coming. For the moment, he simply enjoyed -if such a word could be used here- the silence and relative safety he was feeling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter :)  
> Thank you again for your support and for reading, ILY.


	18. Chapter 18

Feeling safe for too long is dangerous, and Bob had been dozing off when he heard footsteps outside of the cell. He jumped because of the surprise, and tried to hold on to the wall in order not to fall on Mac, his hand coming in contact with the cold and hard surface. A cracking noise. He cried out. He was not so sure anymore there had been any steps, and if there had been, they had not stopped in front of the cell. _What a stooge I would have made… brilliant._

His hand now hurt like hell. He tried to tighten the bandage, mimicking Mac’s earlier movements, but the result was not convincing at all, and the resulting pain was even worse. 

“What the _—_ oh it’s only you,” a familiar voice said. “Welcome back I guess.” 

Cavendish was awake now because of the noise Bob had made. He propped himself up on his elbows. 

“Sorry to have awoken you.” He really was sorry, and ashamed of his lack of cautiousness. 

“No, it’s alright. I’m glad to see you’re doing better. You were in such a state, I mean Mac was adamant you'd wake up, but I thought that this kind of coma you were in would be the end of you _—_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Bob said again, without knowing why he was apologising.

“Don’t be. They were so furious after you that it was almost funny. And it became less funny when they decided to calm their nerves on my face… Not that I was helping.”

Bob smiled then. He had no idea how Cavendish could be so nonchalant when speaking of his own suffering. There was something about his voice and smile that reminded Bob of these moments in the camp, these meetings when they laughed at the uncertainty of things. As if to tear Bob out of these memories,Cavendish got up from the cot and stretched his arms, before gingerly drinking some water. He gestured to Mac’s sleeping form.

“Don’t you think we should put him on the cot?”

Bob nodded. “I was thinking about that earlier, but I did not want to wake you up. I can’t do it alone because of my hand.”

“Sounds logical,” Cavendish answered. “Take the coat, I will carry him.”

Bob complied. Cavendish then lifted Mac’s body from the ground and delicately laid him on the cot. Bob put the coat back on his chest, tucking it underneath his sides. 

“Poor soul,” said Cavendish, looking at Mac. “He barely slept those last days. Too busy worrying for you. For Roger also.”

“By the way, do you have any idea what happened to Roger?” Bob asked, although he had an idea of what the answer would be. “The last time I was taken _there_ , he was in the room, but it was a week ago.”

Cavendish shrugged. “We did not see him either. Preissen and Dietrich may have involuntarily killed him.” _Involuntarily._ Bob saw the bathtub in his mind. He remembered the cruelty, the ragged and weak breaths. _Involuntarily, yeah sure._ “The most probable solution is that he is in another cell. They would use isolation to weaken him.”

Bob did not know what to think. He felt sorry for Mac. He knew what not knowing, fearing, hoping could do to one’s sanity. 

“You know, Roger, he is the one they really want,” Cavendish went on. “They will do anything to make him talk. They will stop at nothing. Previously, they could not keep him for too long, but now that the Gestapo owns him…” He made a vague gesture of the hand, as if to wipe out Roger’s chances of surviving. 

Bob did not answer. There was nothing else to say and the both of them were left wondering, watching Mac sleep as time passed. If Roger was dead… how long would Mac survive? Bob did not want to think about that. One thing was certain, Bob needed Mac. He did not know where the thought came from, but it seemed obvious now that he acknowledged it. 

Suddenly, they heard footsteps outside. Cavendish went to Mac’s side as the key turned in the lock, shaking him. 

“Wake up! They’re coming!” 

Mac groaned, but opened his eyes nonetheless, just in time to see three soldiers enter. Two of them pushed Bob and Cavendish away, while the third threw Mac off the cot, barking at him to get up. Mac complied, the haze of sleep still obvious in his moves. The soldiers cuffed him, and they lead him out of the cell. 

The soldiers slammed the door. Neither Bob nor Cavendish said anything for a few minutes, maybe because they were afraid of a soldier coming back for them. 

“When they take someone,” began Cavendish once it became clear that the soldiers were not coming back, “I get the feeling that it’s the last time I’ll ever see this person in my life. You know, the sick feeling here.” He touched the centre of his stomach. He went on, “I know it’s silly, but then, I always think of all the things I might have wanted to say to that person…” 

“I understand,” answered Bob. “I’ve got the same feeling. The more we wait, the more it grows.” 

Waiting. It was the only thing they could do now, to wait. They sat shoulder to shoulder on the cot, in the same position than when Bob had arrived. They sat and waited in silence. 

Bob had been dozing off for who knew how long, his head resting on Cavendish’s shoulder, when a guard entered. The both of them jerked away from each other, afraid of a crude comment or worse. Yet, this guard did not even look at them. He only gave them water, then left. Bob breathed out. _I wonder… if I survive… will I always be afraid of people opening doors?_

The silence began to get heavy shortly afterwards. Bob was weary, he did not want to move, yet he had to do something to fight the boredom. If he gave his thoughts a void in time and space to fill, he was not sure not to be taken again down their infernal spiral of despair. In the end, it was Cavendish who broke the silence, as if he had heard Bob’s silent plea for something to happen. 

“Do you mind if I sing? It passes the time…”

“Oh no, do as you please.”

Cavendish closed his eyes then, and began to hum a religious tune, his voice barely above a whisper. Bob listened, his head resting once again on Cavendish’s shoulder. The tune was very beautiful in the context of the cell, soothing to Bob’s ears. It sounded very familiar, and halfway through Bob realised the distraction team chorus sang it in the camp. It was so different to hear it sung with only one voice, and not for the sake of making noise. 

“It’s nice. You sing really well, should have realised it sooner,” Bob said, his voice starting to get heavy with sleepiness. “Don’t you have another one?”

Cavendish laughed. “Thank you for the compliment Hendley. Not that singing got me anywhere. I’ve got so many songs in my head, but only a few seem to match with our surroundings. Let’s see…”

Bob fell asleep before the end of that second tune. He slept for too long, living a still life. 

He woke up to Cavendish shaking lightly his shoulder. “The guards are here. Wake up!”

Bob yawned. Had only a few seconds passed since he had closed his eyes? Or had days passed? 

The door opened. Bob did not know what shocked him more in the scene that unravelled in front of his eyes.

There was Roger, who looked like he had not slept or eaten in a week, sporting a black eye and bloody nose. He was not cuffed, but carrying the unconscious body of Mac like one would have a broken bride. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that! I posted in the morning! I hope you liked this chapter... and thank you again for your love and support. Until next week! <3


	19. Chapter 19

When he saw Roger come into the room, Bob’s brain went on autopilot. He instinctively got up from the cot. He had hundreds of questions in his mind, _what happened to Mac? What happened to you? Is Mac alive? Where have you been all this time? Is he alive?_ His unvoiced questions were shushed by Roger’s voice. The urgency in his tone. The unbearable worry. Words Bob had trouble register. In the meantime, Roger had carefully laid down Mac’s body flat on the mattress. 

“Okay— okay now _—_ Denys, hold his feet. Elevated, yes, like that. Hendley, step aside. I’ll tell you if I need anything.”

Bob was too happy to comply. Roger’s voice was strange, too strange to stay close to it. Still hard and commanding, but there was a note of desperation Bob was not used to. A tremor of feeling that just did not match. Roger then began to check Mac’s vital signs. He took his pulse –weak, too weak– lifted his eyelids, felt for a breath with his hand.

“Still breathing _._ ” Roger’s voice were shaking, his hands also. “Well—” He took a deep breath. “Well.” He cleaned Mac’s face swiftly, getting rid of blood here and there, mostly around the mouth. He then gestured to Bob to bring the coat. “Put it over him. We— we need to keep him warm.”

Bob obliged, trying not to look too closely at Mac’s features, and failing. He was white, too white, and the blood glistening at the corners of his lips was too red, and it was so wrong. Cavendish, who was sitting cross-legged on the mattress with Mac’s feet resting on his shoulders, looked at Roger and seemed to hesitate before asking:

“What happened to the two of you?”

Roger put a hand on his forehead, as if prey to a sudden headache. “What happened… do you want the long story of the short one?” He answered, sounding exhausted. Bob had not expected Roger to be so open and actually talk about it… it was not right. 

“Tell us everything Sir. It’s been a week, we were worried sick about you.” _Speak for yourself…_

Roger sat down beside the cot, tucking a sweat-matted strand of hair behind Mac’s ear before taking Mac’s limp hand in his own, two fingers resting at the pulse point on the wrist. 

“Everything… After the day when we saw each other Hendley, you remember, in _that_ room, they took me to a smaller cell. I had passed out then, so I don’t know much _—_ time was _—_ they kept me chained without food or any contact. There was so much light _—_ always light, I could not sleep, I _—_ I thought that I was going mad. Preissen and Dietrich came from time to time, telling me _—_ telling me that one of you had died. That Mac had given up and talked. I never believed them. I knew it wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true. They don’t know Mac like I do...” His fingers tightened around Mac’s hand. _At least, you did not fall prey to their games. Are you too good for that, or is it that you do not care enough?_ “I thought it would never end, that I’d never _—_ ” Roger’s voice broke, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself. “Then, they took me out. Mac was there, in the room. They didn’t leave us alone, but seeing each other, it was enough for us to _—_ ”

Roger was cut in his storytelling by a few weak coughs coming from Mac. A thin rivulet of blood fell down his lips onto his chin, but he did not move. Roger cleaned the blood before running his hand through Mac’s hair in a soothing motion. If Bob had tilted his head to the side, he might have seen tenderness there. 

“They— they wanted to use him make me talk,” said Roger, looking less like he was about to shatter at any minute. “They know… about the bond we share. They will never know how deep it runs though. Mac is not weak. I _—_ ” He was still running his hand through Mac’s hair, and Bob’s eyes followed the gesture as if hypnothised. “I don’t know for how long they beat him but he _—_ He was looking at me the whole time. We never broke eye contact _._ He is so brave. They stopped when he would no longer wake up. I’m afraid it’s too late and he—” ... _is dying?_ “He is unconscious because of the blows, but I’m really afraid he has gone into hypovolemic shock, we’d need a real doctor. I suppose that we will only be sure if he— when he wakes up.”

“Oh my…” whispered Cavendish. Bob did not know if it was as a reaction to the whole story or more precisely to the medical term. _What does hypovolemic means anyway? It must be a synonym of dying… Mac… You don’t deserve this… Wake up, please?_

Roger fell silent then. Bob looked more closely at Mac. His skin was clammy, still whitish, almost a corpse-like paleness. What little of his body Bob could see was covered in purple and black bruises. Did that mean that they would have beaten him to death? Bob felt a shiver run up his spine at the thought. It seemed logical, that Mac would prefer to die rather than to betray Roger. Logical, yet Bob felt a veil of sadness wrap itself around his heart and strangle it. Mac had only been kind to all of them, trying his best to ease their pain, to make them smile. Nice to everybody back in the camp. He did not deserve to die. _It’s not fair… please… stay strong. Sleep and stay alive. If not for me, then do it for Roger._

While Bob was thinking, Roger had taken Cavendish’s place holding Mac’s feet up. Never once did his eyes leave Mac’s face. Bob could not bear to look at the worry written on Roger’s features. The raw hope there, so similar to his own it was painful. 

Their three minds were in harmony as they stood silently watching over the still body for what seemed to be an infinite time. They might not have voiced it, but they shared the very same thought. _Please wake up. Stay alive._

And as if he had heard their pleas, Mac did wake up. It was not what they had expected, if they had dared to expect. His breathing was becoming shallow, fast, and the rasping sound drew the three men’s attention, putting an end to their silent prayers. Mac woke up, mouth open and eyes unseeing. His hand weakly gripped the closest thing –which turned out to be Bob’s leg- and in a desperate move, Mac turned his head to the side, vomiting dark blood on the floor, a few inches away from the mattress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, thank you again for your love and support, and see you next week!


	20. Chapter 20

Roger was at Mac’s side in an instant, a hand on his upper back, wiping the blood from his mouth. 

“There, there…” 

_If he wakes up, then he’s going to be okay, no? No. Of course not, it’s not that easy, it never was…_

Mac’s breath was coming in short gasps, his eyes were closed again, and his hand was now gripping Roger’s other arm, knuckles even whiter than his skin. He opened his mouth as if to talk, but after a hiccup-like sound, he only coughed up more blood. 

Mac kept on dry-heaving for a few seconds then did not move anymore, his lips forming unvoiced syllables. His face was damp with sweat, and he did not losen his grip on Roger’s arm as the latter whispered:

“I’m going to move you back onto the cot. Is that okay?”

Mac nodded weakly, and Roger guided his upper body back on the cot. Bob was feeling nauseous. The air he breathed in smelled of blood. The sounds that came to his ears were nightmarish. He could feel a few tears well up in his eyes at the mere thought of the pain that Mac must have been experiencing. 

Mac, once he was lying down again, looked at each of his three cellmates. He was even paler if possible. A small, weak smile graced his lips. “I’m okay—” A coughing fit wrecked his body again, more blood trickling down his lips. “I— I’m all right.” 

Bob remembered that back in the camp, there had been this rumour, that Mac and Roger were so close they could read each other’s thoughts. Communicate with glances only. When Mac’s eyes met Roger’s, Bob saw the light in those blue eyes change. Roger shook his head, still holding Mac’s hand. _Oh no,_ thought Bob. _You’re not alright at all my friend… but you already know it don’t you? You only say this for us… so selfless. You are so unlike me…_

“Mac…” Roger’s fingers tightened their grip around Mac’s hand. “Tell me how you feel. It’s very important.” His voice was not commanding anymore but tender, worried. 

“I feel—” Mac closed his eyes. “My chest hurts, my head too. I am tired… so tired.” 

“It’s okay. You can rest soon,” Roger answered, lightly caressing Mac’s hair with his free hand. “Anything else?” 

“I feel dizzy, I— Roger—” Mac opened his eyes again, his voice carrying an urgency that sent chills down Bob’s spine. “Roger, what happened?”

Roger seemed lost in his thoughts, searching for the right answer. He held Mac’s hand up to examine it closely. Much to his horror, Bob noticed that the fingertips had turned a blueish colour. _So it’s true then… he is really_ — Roger took off the coat covering Mac’s body for a few seconds, enough for all four of them to be able to see the dark bruises and swelling.

“Roger, I—” Mac said, only to be interrupted by another coughing fit. His face was contorted by pain, and his voice was weak when he spoke again. “Am I dying?” 

“You— they—” Roger let out a strangled chuckle, which sounded awfully like a sob to Bob’s ears.

Mac lifted his hand to touch Roger’s cheek. “It’s okay. You’re safe.” _Of course he is you fool! And you’re gonna die because of him!_

Before Bob had time to regret his thoughts, Mac looked in his direction and smiled. He smiled, blood on his lips, blood on his teeth, _but that smile_. He looked at Bob and Cavendish. “You’re safe.” For an instant, Bob wanted to believe him. Perhaps, they could be safe. He wanted to believe it, until Mac closed his eyes, severing the contact. Roger rearranged the coat over Mac’s body. His hands were trembling, his eyes red. No one was safe.

“I am sorry,” Mac whispered to Roger. “What a pitiful way to die…”

“My friend…” Roger said, his voice breaking. “There is nothing pitiful about you. You— you have been so very brave. Never say you’re pitiful.”

“Forgive me for everything Roger…” Mac’s voice held a hopeless note, as if he had realised he had no time left. _I always think of all the things I might have wanted to say to that person._ “Please… say you forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, my dear friend. You would never have been here if not for me. I threw your life away. I should be the one begging for your forgiveness.”

“Don’t say that. I would not be anywhere else than here, with you,” said Mac. There was no questioning how genuine his words were, as much as Bob wanted to. “These years with you—”

“—Are the very best years I’ve lived, even if they must come to an end here and now.” Bob had never heard such raw emotion in Roger’s voice. “Thank you for everything. You are the best companion one could ever hope to meet. Mac, I— I—”

Mac’s face became serene upon hearing those words, a strange glow blurring the agony written on his features. “I know.“ 

Soon Mac did not have the strength to lift his head anymore. He stayed with his mouth open over the cot, blood slowly dripping to the floor. Yet, Roger watched over him, cleaning the blood, whispering in his hair words Bob refused to hear. The clock ticked by with no pity for dying men. No comfort for those left alive.

“Hold me?” The request was said so softly that Bob thought for a moment that he imagined it. Yet, Roger got up then, climbed on the cot and took Mac’s body in his arms, holding him like one would have an infant _or a lover_. Bob did not know if he wanted for the raspy, weak breaths to stop, or on the contrary to beat the tempo of the cell forever. 

A heavy silence fell over the room, not a living soul daring to breathe or talk for agonizingly slow minutes. Bob could not take his eyes away from the blue lips and lily-white face. 

_It’s impossible… it cannot end like this. He’s going to wake up. He’s going to be alive… no?_

_No?_

For an infinite time, Roger stayed unmoving, Mac gathered in his arms like the twisted image of a pieta. Silent sobs were racking his body, his face hidden in the crook of Mac’s clay cold neck. If Bob’s heart had not been constricted by pain and sadness, he might have thought Roger’s reaction to be uncharacteristic. _I did not even know you could cry…_ Faced with Roger’s grief, so intense that his pride seemed to have been taken away, Bob would have been sorry then, _of course you can feel, I knew it… I’m sorry to have not believed it, I guess._

The guards must have had noticed that something was wrong. Was it a sound, a smell? Or maybe the light that was dimmer, the air thicker, darker? Maybe, they had been waiting in front of the cell like a hungry vulture pack, listening to dying words and breaths. Five of them entered the cell, and they barked questions. Bob nodded in answer, yes. Mac was indeed dead. To ascertain it like that felt to Bob like he was stabbing himself. It was not his responsibility… it was still too fresh, too easy to deny. Roger had not even acknowledged the guards’ presence. They exchanged a few quick words in German, then two of them grabbed Mac, tearing him from Roger’s arms. They took the body away without another word, like one would carry a deer killed in a hunt. Bob wanted to lash out at them. He wanted to cry. He had been holding his tears all night –or day, or _days_ \- long. It was too much. He took a glance at Roger who had not moved, still on his knees on the mattress. 

Bob looked then at Cavendish, standing beside him. None of them had dared to talk, to do anything. They felt as if those moments had been Roger’s and Mac’s alone. They had willed themselves invisible, but now it had become unbearable. They held each other’s gazes for a few seconds before Cavendish opened his arms in a silent invitation. Bob obliged and fell in the embrace without realising that he was now weeping. They stood entangled, a pitiful comfort that was still so much better than being alone. Alone like Roger was. _Alone… It’s much better when one is all alone._ A thick blanket of grief fell on the cell as time passed, covering the still beating hearts. Shielding them from the outside world. 

_I want to wake up from this horrible dream._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for being late, but I was pretty busy today and doing the necessary proofreading/light modifications on this chapter turned out to be HELL. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it (and i am sorry i had to do that to Mac... but it was necessary) and thank you for reading and supporting me, and see you next week!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers, I am the happiest writer today because the amazing, lovely, talented LilaLila (whom you can find on Tumblr there: [*killing-demons-at-midnight*](https://killing-demons-at-midnight.tumblr.com/)) drew fanart for this fic! **dances and sings and flails around crying with joy** I feel like the gods of art and writing have shone their light on me :D (the fanart is of the last chapter, and I have permission to share it here so please let us enjoy how great this drawing below is (and let us enjoy once again the suffering of these two precious boys) and thank you again to LilaLila <3 <3

* * *

_I want to wake up from this horrible dream._

Yet this was no dream and Bob knew it. It was the harsh reality, the one that crushed you and laughed at your misery. _Mac’s gone._ It was the war, the war that asked for _useless_ sacrifices. The war that had taken Bob away from his loved ones, his home. The war that was going to take everything from him now. Freedom, dignity, friends, humanity. His life?

When Bob disentangled his body from Cavendish’s, his limbs were stiff, his legs painful for having stood up for too long and his feet on fire. Bob felt that the salt from his tears had dried on his face, leaving his skin parched. He was beyond thankful then, when Cavendish handed him the jug of water. The water tasted like blood. Maybe it was his mouth that bore the taste, or his heart. Still, drinking felt good. Bob had no idea how much time had passed since Mac had been taken away. It was still unreal, and a sick part of his mind was adamant that a guard would open the door, bringing in a beaten-up, bloody but very much alive Mac. They would take care of him then, heal his wounds and try their best to lessen his suffering. _No. Not anymore… never again. He’s dead. Dead like the others._ Never would Bob see his quick, cheerful smile again. Never would he hear the soft Scottish accent again. 

_All the things I might have wanted to say, all the things._ Bob did not know. He had no idea what he might have wanted to say. He had not known Mac, not really. _Under any other circumstances_ _, we would have been great together?_ For the friendliest person of the camp, Mac had also been a very quiet chap, never talking about himself. Always by Roger’s side, two steps behind. Always here to give an idea, to help and listen. Brilliant, in all the ways. _And now he’s dead._ Brilliant, and now the cell was darker than ever before. 

Bob thought again about their first meeting. How Mac had been naturally friendly and open with him, like they had known each other for quite some times. Maybe he had… he always knew everything. How, with a few soft and smart words, he had coerced Bob into his little world. Soon after, Bob had shaken Roger’s hand, sealing his fate forever. 

_So it’s a little bit your fault if I am here Mac…_ Bob felt some sort of misplaced anger try to sip into his heart. _No. It’s too easy, it’s not right._ Blaming the leaders, blaming the masterminds. Blaming the dead. Bob was no pawn. _Nobody forced me, and I was very happy to be who I was for the organisation, I was too happy of the power I had. You were never at fault my friend, I am so sorry. I never truly blamed you for Colin… all you ever did, you did it to protect each and every one of us._ Bob felt as if he was about to cry again. _But we couldn’t protect you_ — His sadness had bubbled up his throat, overwhelming, yet the dark voice of anger did not seem to go away. Bob swept his eyes over the cell, letting his gaze fall on Roger _. He should have protected you._

Roger had not yet moved, statue-like in his misery. His eyes were closed, his breathing a little too even. _Did I look like that, when I was lost in my head? He_ — _he lost his best friend. No, they were more than friends, and Mac died for him. I don’t know if I can blame him for being withdrawn._ Bob was lucky, truth be told. Some days, his own best friend was blissfully dead, away from earthly torments. Some other days he was alive, safe far away on the highest floor of an ivory tower. Bob had never seen his best friend die, had never held a lover in his arms to feel the last breath leave their body, the last shimmer of human light and warmth turn cold. He did not even try to imagine the pain, the feeling of emptiness, of guilt and loneliness. Guilt. _Yes, you feel guilty now Roger, you wish your places had been exchanged, I am sure of it_ — _oh do shut up Bob! Let him grieve in peace, spend your powerlessness somewhere else. Punch the wall, for example. No! Not with your injured hand_ —

Bob’s hand stopped an inch from the wall. He blinked. What a fool he could be sometimes… He blinked again. Cavendish, leaning against the same wall that he was going to hit looked at him with genuine concern in his eyes. 

“Hendley. I know I should not ask, but, are you all right?”

“I guess not,” answered Bob, running his other hand through his matted hair. “I should not think too much.” He was feeling quite ashamed of himself.

“It’s dangerous to think here,” said Cavendish wish a half-smile. “You never know where or how far your thinking may take you.”

Bob tried to smile, but it looked more like a lopsided grimace. Cavendish went on:

“If only it could take us beyond this door or this window. To see the sunlight again, or to feel the wind before we bite the dust too.” 

Feel the wind. How long had it been since Bob has closed his eyes to feel the chilly breeze on his face? It would do no good to dwell on such things. _To fly, one last time, to feel the earth so far away from my feet, to feel the speed, the freedom. To feel the wind on my face…_ Bob shook his head. _No no,_ he had to find something to do. He looked around him at the cell, his eyes resting on the drying pools of now blackish blood on the floor.

“We should clean this up, don’t you think so?” Bob said to Cavendish.

“It seems a good plan to me, but we’ll have to sacrifice a shirt. Besides, I can’t ask you to do it with your hand.” 

Bob looked at his hand. Cavendish was right, but Bob felt sorry for him. He did not want to be reduced to a burden. Yet, if he did not keep his hand immobile, who knew how it would heal? The prospect of not being able to use his hand anymore was terrifying. For a split second, he felt Mac’s fingers on his, touching the bandages.

Bob then watched as Cavendish ripped a shred of his shirt to mop the blood up, on his knees on the hard floor. Caught up in his thoughts again, Bob did not hear a group of guards stop by the door. They opened the door, and two forced Roger to get up. He followed them without a word, his eyes like ice, burning with the frozen fire of pure hatred. On their way out of the cell, a guard found funny to kick Cavendish in the back to make him fall down face forward on the blood-stained floor. _Bloody bastards_. Bob knew very well that any reaction on his part would only worsen the situation. Yet, as soon as they had closed the door, Bob was at Cavendish’s side, not caring for his injured hand. He helped Cavendish up and tentatively handed him a wet cloth –which had most likely been already used- to wash his face. 

Cavendish smiled. _Don’t let them get at you._ “Thanks Hendley.” Bob smiled in answer. They did not know if Roger would come back. They did not know how long they would survive, and for the time being, Bob decided that it was indeed better not to think ahead. 

Once he had finished to mop up the floor, Cavendish laid down on the cot to sleep. Bob was sitting on the floor, and looked at the mattress. There were many new dark stains there, blood. How many men had died before on this cot? How many had gone mad in this cell? Bob took a few tentative steps towards the cot, watching his comrade sleep. He did not see the filth, the unkempt hair and growing beard. This was not important anymore. He could only see the scars covering the face, the burns that would not heal. His gaze trailing down, Bob looked at Cavendish’s hands, once manicured and untouched, the hands of those men that had never known a day of hard work. Now dirty and bloody. Bob then looked at his own good hand. There was blood encrusted under his short nails, a few cuts on the palm, _how did I get those?_ He often prided himself of his long, nimble fingers. The hands of a thief, of a gentleman. He looked at his bandaged hand. The fingers were unresponsive, the only feeling he had being a numb pain. Would they stay eternally crooked? Would he be again able to handle a plane’s delicate controls, to slip unnoticed in someone’s pocket? _Please heal._ Only time would tell, if time did not take him… he nipped this thought before it could grow and overwhelm him. He stifled a yawn, and decided to try to get some sleep, joining Cavendish on the cot. _Better than thinking._ Perhaps, a few hours of sleep would numb the pain.

When Bob woke up, he felt two contradictory feelings at once. 

Hunger, clawing and vicious and unrelenting, making him nauseous. Yet he was comfortably warm, the kind of morning warmth that enticed one to fall back to sleep and cuddle with the closest person available. Bob opened his eyes, only to realise that in his sleep, he had moved from his chaste sharing of the cot with Cavendish. He had turned around in his sleep, and now his chest was resting against Cavendish’s back, _never imagined us like that_ , an arm draped across his chest. Luckily for Bob, Cavendish was still asleep, and he was able to extricate himself from the cot before the situation became very uncomfortable for the both of them. He breathed out several times. There were other problems to deal with now. More pressing needs, hunger and thirst being quite on top of the list.

While chewing on tasteless food, Bob could not help thinking about the last few days. Sleeping had helped with the pain in his heart, but the dull ache was still there. He sighed, looking at the bland bread. He forced himself to finish his share of the food. _I’d be useless dying of starvation. Besides, not eating won’t bring anybody back._

Now that he had eaten, there was nothing else to do but wait. Bob tried to count the seconds and minutes, but he very soon found that he was not regular at all…Time made no sense. He made a mental note to ask Cavendish to help him later on the subject. It was common knowledge that the man was good at maths, _except when he makes mistakes,_ cut in Bob’s dark voice.

He counted thirty minutes until Cavendish woke up. Then he looked at the tiny window over the cot and noticed that there was no light anymore… although there had been plenty of light when he had started counting. He definitely needed help. 

“Hello.” _Slept well?_

“Hello Hendley. Alright? Nothing new?”

 _Alright._ “Nothing, since I cannot call this bread new.” 

Cavendish let out a dry chuckle. He got up from the bed, stretched his arms. Bob then looked in the door’s direction to allow him some privacy. _Come on, like we have any privacy here!_

“Still no news of Roger?”

“No, nothing. I woke up some time ago. I can’t say, I don’t count time like you do. It could be several hours ago, it could be half an hour. I’ve heard nobody though,” answered Bob over his shoulder. 

“Keeping track of time... I must admit that since Mac passed away, I’ve lost my count. It’s not the first time I lost count of something though.” He had said the last sentence in a lower voice, as if he did not want to admit it.

 _Yes I already know, you were the one doing the surveys_ . _So it’s your fault then if we_ —

“No one blames you,” said Bob before he could voice his thoughts. He for one could not honestly blame Cavendish. Roger’s reaction though, mused Bob, would be another story entirely. One did not want to be on the receiving end of his fury.

Cavendish must have caught Bob’s unvoiced innuendo though, since he answered, while helping himself to his share of bread:

“Roger is a very pragmatic man. I know he blames me for screwing up the escape, but he had more important matters to deal with, like escaping and now that he’s been caught, there’s the Gestapo. So he remains civil.” He stopped talking to finish his piece of bread, then went on, bitter, “Dammit— I blame myself so much already!”

“You know, I would never have been able to do such maths,” Bob said in an attempt to comfort him. “I suppose most of us were able to escape in the end.”

_Well, now, I prefer to suppose that. We all deserved it._

“I don’t think so.” A dark cloud passed over Cavendish’s eyes. “I heard the shots.” 

_Shots? Had some of them been shot, killed, as they were going out?_ He faintly remembered Preissen telling him about this too. _But why had they been discovered?_ Something had happened that night. _We lost time, yes, but, had somebody not been careful? He said he heard the shots okay okay that does not mean he saw everything_ — _and I just cannot ask, can I?_

Bob did not know what to answer. He had not known Cavendish’s escape number. That evening, the only thing that had mattered had been to get out safely. To get Colin out and then to move. The others had only barely existed, blurred silhouettes with whom he had exchanged quick words of good luck. When Roger had told him that the tunnel was too short, he had denied it at first, half a second of ‘what? no!’ that had quickly been drowned by adrenaline. It was just another obstacle in front of his path. Now that he thought about it, he noticed that he had not even once wondered how many had successfully gotten out. He had seen some of them at the train station the morning after, but had he cared? No. _I was free… Colin was free. Nothing else was important. I suppose it was this way for everybody._ He had seen many in that room where they had left Colin, but he had not cared about them. Bob settled on a courteous, if not personal, answer. 

“I’m sorry.”

“The worst thing is that I— for three years, not once did I make a mistake. And for the damn big plan, the _coup-du-siècle_ , I have to screw things up. It’s infuriating.” Cavendish lightly kicked the wall with the tip of his shoe “You know that feeling? Like everything you ever made is meaningless...” 

_Well… somebody had to make a mistake. It was all too beautiful to be true. That plan was working too well._ Bob wondered what would have changed, if he had been the one to make such a mistake. How he would have reacted. He who was so used to sneak out of sticky and problematic situations, would he have been able to face Roger? Before Colin, he had never thought he would have it in himself, to speak up for someone against a higher authority. Bob was no coward. He was sly, nothing less nothing more. Right now, Bob felt that a change of subject was needed. Maybe not something to lighten the atmosphere – was such a thing even possible?– but any subject that would not darken more the mood. 

“I was thinking, now that Mac is… gone, is there a chance that Roger might give up?” 

_Well. That was a brilliant idea. You lightened the mood all right mate._

“I— I hope he doesn’t. The Roger I know would never give up. He hates the Nazis too much for that, he loved Mac too much to let his sacrifice be meaningless. The more they harm him, the more he fights. In which state we will find him, that’s something else. But whatever happens he won’t talk.”

Bob nodded. Roger was tenacious to say the least. The perfect charismatic leader they had needed in the camp, and most likely a very troublesome load for the Gestapo and the SS. 

“I hope you are right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, the longest to date! (and longest of this part of the fic too!) I wanna thank LilaLila again for the fanart (<3 <3 <3 <3 <3) and thank you all for reading this fic, whether you are just a silent reader, or leave kudos & comments, it means the world to me that there are people out there who read this dumpster fire of a story and keep this fandom alive. I love you all.


	22. Chapter 22

The guards brought Roger back a few hours later. He looked badly beaten up but could at least walk and did not look like he would pass out anytime soon. Bob waited for him to say something, anything, from a simple “I’m alright,” to something more personal. But Roger did not even acknowledge Bob’s nor Cavendish’s presence. He went straight to the cot and sat down, taking the coat and draping it over his shoulders. For a time Bob did not keep track of, Roger’s fingers played with the hems of the coat. Eyes closed, breathing a little too even. Something in the air Bob did not understood, but felt he should have, like a forgotten explanation. All of a sudden, Roger threw the coat away and hid his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. No one said anything. Bob would not have known what to say. Perhaps, if he wished hard enough for it, Mac would be alive again. How difficult would it be to picture him in that same outside world Colin now haunted? All his mind’s eye could paint was a morning after a rainy night, a distant memory from not so long ago, and Colin was somewhere just out of sight, and Bob was waiting for Mac. A shiver ran down his back to his feet, and for a split second Bob thought that he saw the tremor run through the floor, making the walls of the cells tremble. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. _Stop thinking._

Hours passed. The cell was eerily silent, the atmosphere was becoming heavier by the minute. Stiffling, no movement in the air. Sometimes, Roger’s eyes would fall on Bob, some other times on Cavendish, and the two men had a hard time not to fidget under the blank, empty stare. _Come on Roger, find something to do! “Just stop looking at me like that, you’re making me nervous!” Oh crap. I said that out loud didn’t I?_ From the surprised look Roger then gave Bob, he had indeed said that out loud. Roger got up from the cot and, in a few steps, was face to face with Bob. With a cold sneer on his face, he spat:

“I’m making you nervous, right? I wonder what it’s like when it’s _them_ looking at you.”

 _That was uncalled for! As if you’re any better than me… as if you’re not terrified too! I’m pretty sure that you will beg them to spare your pretty hide when the moment comes._ Yet Bob knew better than to answer. He did not trust his own voice, what the anger underneath and the pain would make him say. He did not know how to deal with Roger’s fury. He knew why Roger acted this way, but was that a reason, an excuse to lash out at him? _Yes, you fool, it is a reason. Objectively speaking, his only way to cope with what happens is by being angry. He’d give up otherwise. Still, it’s not fair. I hope that_ — 

Roger went back to the cot and rested his head against the wall, eyes closed. “Oh Mac,” he whispered, his voice strangled, “why— why did it have to be you gone and not one of us...” _What? No you cannot say_ — Cavendish gasped, looking as shocked as Bob felt. _I know that you loved Mac, but it’s a little too much to wish us all dead, no?_ Roger looked straight at Cavendish, and something was definitely off with him. 

“What? What’s your problem?” That fury, again. 

“Nothing, Roger, nothing—”

“It’d better be nothing. If you’re not able to do your job correctly you don’t need to talk.”

Cavendish closed his eyes, trying to compose himself. _Roger did not stay civil very long then. Well..._ Bob felt a sick feeling sneak into his stomach. This would not end well, and there was no escape from the fight.

“I—” Cavendish had his head bowed, staying submissive, as if he was waiting for a blow to come. When he looked closer, Bob noticed that he was in fact trying to hold back tears that he could see glistening at the corner of his lids. 

“No. You say nothing.” Roger took a deep, shaky breath, as if to try to calm down. He obviously did not succeed. “You’re pretty lucky that we were able to find a way to go through that night. All the ones you saw being caught, the— the very fact that we’re here, it— it’s your bloody fault! If we had not lost our precious time trying to find a way to correct your stupid mistake, who knows where we may be now! I suppose you’re happy with so many ghosts to keep you company you—”

A few tears finally fell down Cavendish’s cheeks, yet he was still not answering Roger. There was nothing to say; after all, Roger was telling the truth. _But is Cavendish really to blame? There must have been other people, some that made us lose time that fateful night. I’m sure there were other mistakes. Like insisting on having Colin with me._ Bob felt his heart constrict in his chest. He wanted to step up, to say something to comfort Cavendish. _And myself._ He had already done so, for Colin. _Mistakes._ He had already faced Roger, _and perhaps I should not have_ and there was no reason why he would not be able to do so another time.

He took a deep breath and stepped right between the two of them, arms extended. 

“Calm down Roger. Now.” Bob was surprised by how steady his voice sounded.

“Now, you— you—” Bob could nearly touch Roger’s fury, so thick in the air. For a second, he believed that Roger would hit him, or grab at his throat and strangle him. So he talked. _Talk your way out of this. Use your words, this is your field._

“No. You listen to me. Stop attacking him and get a hold of yourself. We all make mistakes. Some are more dire than others, right, but in the end… we escaped, didn’t we?” Roger nodded. Something had changed in his eyes, like a wave of exhaustion had extinguished the anger. _You’re on the right tracks Bob. Keep it up my boy!_ “Is this not the most important thing then? Your crazy plan worked. You created another front, that’s why we are here.” _Yes. It’s your fault that we are going to die. You should keep that in mind Roger, before blaming the others. “_ It was not his fault if you were caught, no? I don’t say you should blame yourself,” _yes, in fact I do_ . _Mac is dead because of you. He died for you! Colin is_ — _Colin might be dead because you backed off and went my way!_ “The Gestapo and the SS are to blame. Hitler is to blame. Us here— we should only try to survive. Hold on to each other for support.” 

“You— You’re right.” Bob had not expected this reaction. Roger looked a hairbreadth away from breaking down. His voice was barely above a whisper. Bob could not believe it. He might have put an end to his outburst of anger, if only temporarily. He was certain that Mac would have been able to do so with a simple look, a hand on the shoulder and a smile. Oh, how he missed him! And how Roger had to miss him even more. How Roger had no other choice but blaming other to survive his own guilt. _And he’s not the only one to do this…_

“I am sorry.” Roger gave him a tentative, broken smile. He swept a hand through his face, as if to order his thoughts, then looked at Cavendish, who had wiped his tears away and now looked calmer. “I am so sorry. I know you won’t believe me and for God’s sake I cannot even blame you! It’s only that it— it’s becoming too much. All of this. I don’t know where I stand anymore, what’s important— it’s not an excuse I know. It’s— it’s all my fault.”

“No,” Cavendish said, shaking his head. “It’s okay. Guess what? I suppose all of this is a twisted plan of theirs. They know how to hurt us, Roger. What to say to make us mad and tear at each other. You don’t have to justify anything” _Yes he does! How can you let it go like this? It’s his fault._ “You trusted me. You all did and I threw your trust away. I’ve failed you, and if I were to survive…”He took a step towards Roger then, and extended his hand in a gesture of peace. “I’d never forgive myself.” 

Roger took and shook his hand. They both shared a meaningful look that spoke of a past Bob knew nothing about. Roger sat down on the cot then, and Cavendish sat down next to him. The storm had subsided by now, and the both of them were looking calm. _Too calm._ Bob was still feeling electricity underneath his skin, all his nerves stood on edge, _who knows when Roger may have another fit of anger? Or worse, of despair? Who knows what he will do or say then?_ Yet, Cavendish seemed to have no problem with staying near Roger. _He has always trusted him. From what he said to me earlier, I suppose that he blames himself so much already… maybe he feels like he deserves Roger’s wrath. Poor man. I hope he can forgive himself one day, when we are free from all this._

Bob breathed in, beckoning his thoughts to stop talking for a bit. He wanted to enjoy the silence, the newfound peace. He did not want to think about guilt and survival anymore, it was too complex a question, with a too easy answer he refused to see. He was too afraid to think more about that. As soon as Bob had closed his eyes, his mind stopped thinking and he fell into a half-sleep, coming back to his senses when some time later -hours? it had to be hours- he heard footsteps. _Again—_ a few seconds afterwards, the guards unlocked the door. 

They gestured for Roger to get up. Cavendish looked at him with worried eyes. 

“It’s okay,” whispered Roger as he got up to follow them. Bob did not even turn his head to watch him leave. He was still embittered by their fight and by Roger’s attitude. By his own too, and by how similar they were. _Maybe Cavendish is right though. It could be a technique to turn us against one another… It could be working. Oh God Mac I miss you._ Bob needed to calm down, he really did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, thank you for reading and for your support, feel free to tell me your opinions about it, I always appreciate it :)


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who's a day late for posting! Sincere apologies, but this chapter was a B*TCH to edit and I did some re-writing that took lots of time (and there might be a few typos left... I'll re-read again later just in case) I hope you enjoy it though :)

After Roger’s departure, Bob saw that Cavendish kept glancing at him, but he did not get up from the cot until some time had passed. He then walked to Bob’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Thank you. For—”

Bob did not need to hear the end of the sentence. He smiled. “You’re welcome.” _Anytime._

“I— I don’t think that I would have been able to face Roger on my own, or even wanted to for that matter,” Cavendish said, looking ashamed. “I owe you much.” 

“I could not let him bully you like that,” Bob answered. _Bully might not be the right word, but you see what I mean. “_ I get why he acted this way but he had no right to nonetheless.” 

_I already saw enough misplaced guilt in my life. I already saw Roger hurt someone, no he was only being cautious, and he was right. Well anyway, there is no need of being cautious now. So Roger was wrong._ In a way, Bob hoped that Cavendish would agree with him, and not wallow in self misery. If Cavendish went on in that direction, Bob was afraid that he would fade away. Become an empty shell of himself or worse, let himself die. Let the Gestapo win. And to be honest, Bob did not want to be alone with Roger _and himself_ , now that Mac was no longer here. He needed to keep Cavendish alive and sane, at least for his own survival. He looked back at him. _Please, be sensible…_

“Yes, I guess you are right,” Cavendish said with a tentative smile. “I must apologise for how I reacted, it was quite unmanly.” _Nonsense._

“With all we’ve been through, there was no shame at all in breaking down a bit. Maybe it’s even necessary in order not to go mad.” _I wonder where I got that._

“I would like to believe you. To be as optimistic and open. I’m glad though… that Roger seems to have come back to his senses.” _You are not the only one! One minute more and I might have punched him into the wall._

Bob was thinking about an answer, something that did not mention hurting anyone. Not when Roger was very likely being hurt at that very moment. Something that would not convey all his bitterness, all his anger. _Because I am not sure how righteous it is anymore._ Yet, he found no time to answer as Cavendish went on:

“I know Roger does not truly blame me. But seeing him like that… It hurts more than I thought it would. I know I made a mistake. I do not ask for his forgiveness… not even acceptance. I do not deserve any of the two, as long as I am not in peace with myself. You really are a good man Hendley, to have helped me.” 

Cavendish must have felt that there was nothing to add, since he sat by the door, eyes closed. Bob knew that it was better to let him rest then. _He needs to rest, with his current emotional state_ . Bob was then left alone with himself, counting the blood stains on the mattress and trying not to dwell too much on his own dark thoughts. _Roger blames Cavendish because of his own guilt, and I blame Roger because of my guilt. Cavendish blames himself_ — _who blames me then? Colin… did you think it was my fault in the end?_

If the Gestapo had indeed wanted to wear them out, to make them fight each other in order to weaken them, well, congratulations, they had succeeded. Bob had his nerves on edge, he could feel his whole body tensing up like a bow at the mere mention of Roger. At the mere thought of guilt, of responsibility. Mac’s death was still darkening his mind, because those were not the right conditions to grieve for someone. Mac should never have died in the first place. There were people waiting for him somewhere, people who loved him, and would be deprived of his light because of— _No._ Bob could feel himself closer to the edge of the cliff. They had lost track of time, they were lost for the world. One last push from their killers and he would fall. He would fall down the pit of despair. Grow mad, kill himself. _No, impossible. No no no no no. You smile on and survive. Because. You. Will. Survive._ Bod decided to hold on to that thread of hope. All three of them, they would survive. They would survive, because Bob wanted to prove to the whole world that he was right. Because he wanted to punch Roger in the nose, and he would refrain himself from doing so as long as they would stay here. Because now that he knew him better, he wanted Cavendish to have a chance to forgive himself a little bit. Because he also craved a chance, a reason to forgive himself.

Bob guessed that at least a day had passed when Roger was brought back, because he had found time to sleep a bit -sitting on the cot to rest his foot- and had woken up famished. He looked up when the guards opened the door, a part of his mind wondering in which state Roger would be. He was alive -something Bob felt strangely grateful for- but looked unwell, his face white from the pain. Only then did Bob notice Roger’s right arm, twisted and swollen, that he was supporting with his left hand. Bob did not really know what to do, some strange internal instinct preventing him to move, yet Cavendish rose to help Roger as soon as he came in. _Of course._

“What happened to your arm?” Cavendish asked, helping Roger sit down on the cot. Bob stood up to leave them space, and went to stand by the door.

“Broken.” Roger answered, his voice shaky. “They knew— they know I—” Bob looked at him more closely. Apart from his arm, he bore no visible marks. _What have they done to you?_ Nothing but Roger’s haunted eyes. Something was terribly wrong. 

“It’s all right,” said Cavendish, his voice betraying how worried he was. “Let me help you. If I was able to immobilise it, perhaps then...” _That’s exactly now that we would need Mac… our sweet nurse._ “If I could borrow your shirt, I might try to make some kind of sling.” 

Roger accepted, and Bob averted his eyes, without knowing why. It was not as if he had never seen Roger shirtless, but perhaps he was afraid to see something... a clue as to what had happened, a gaping hole where his heart should have been, _my own reflection?_ Although Bob did not see what was happening, his ears could not block the pained moans and reassuring hushed words, the sound of torn fabric. When Bob looked again in their direction, Roger’s arm was strapped to his chest by a makeshift sling. It seemed to have been broken in two places, at the forearm and close to the shoulder. Just like Bob’s hand, Roger’s arm would not heal correctly, not under these circumstances. It would remain bent and twisted, subside into a dull pain that never truly left. _If we survive…_ Cavendish grabbed Mac’s coat draped it over Roger’s shoulders before sitting beside him. Roger did not react, and after a few silent, unmoving minutes, he lay his head on Cavendish’s shoulder. In Cavendish’s place, Bob would have jerked away, but Cavendish took Roger’s left hand in his and smiled. It seemed like Roger would not have another fit of anger for some time -quite the opposite, as he looked devoid of any emotion. As terrifying as that was, at least he was acting respectfully around Cavendish, so well. _It’s all right now._

Bob fell asleep after a few hours of looking at nothing in particular, falling asleep to the rhythm his boredom. He was safe in a dreamless sleep, but after some time, voices from beyond came to disturb his slumber. The voices were not shouting, not dangerous, but there was something in the words, even if Bob could not understand them, that beckoned him to wake up. Too many voices, voices that did not belong, or was he dreaming? There was only Cavendish and Roger with him… _they are not fighting again, are they?_

Bob was awake now, and slightly worried. He was awake, but kept his eyes closed. This was a thing he had learned over time: when one feigns sleep, one can acquire a lot of information. People tend to untie their tongues when unaware of eavesdroppers. There were no reasons for Roger and Cavendish not to speak in his presence, but he did not want to take any risks.

The words did not make much sense, as Bob reluctantly focused on them, on the sentences. On Cavendish’s voice. “—Because he still has hope?” _Are they, like, talking about me?_

“He is in denial of everything half of the time, but perhaps it’s better this way. At least he does not—” In his mind, Bob did not thank Roger for those words. The tone of his voice had been neutral, emotionless, but the meaning he himself put behind the words unnerved him. _As nice as always I see… will you ever change? Or was Mac your moral compass?_

“Denial? I think he sees a pretty good picture of the situation,” _Thanks, I mean it._ “He just protects himself. He has a natural ability not to lose hope.”

“He’s lucky then. I don’t know about you, but I lost it long ago, maybe even before I lost Mac, and it’s time to end this.” _Wait what?_ Bob opened his eyes, and he almost shouted. What Roger had said had chilled Bob to the bone. He had to remain unmoving though, if he wanted to hear what would follow. If they paid attention to him… it would break the spell. If he showed any sign that he was awake, Roger would probably clam up like an oyster. Bob willed his breathing to remain even and went on listening. _He cannot mean it._ “I’m going mad Denys.” _You were not already mad then Roger? I could have sworn you were._ Before his mind could come up with another bitter angry comment, Bob remembered how he had felt when he had believed Colin would be subjected to the same torment as he was. He remembered his nightmares, and felt genuinely sorry, if only for a second. 

“I am sure you’re not mad,” Cavendish answered. He was standing by the cot, looking genuinely worried. “It’s all right to—”

“No.” Roger got up from the cot, Mac’s coat falling on the ground. His voice had gone in an instant from emotionless to brittle. “No, no! I can feel it. I can almost hear Mac talk to me when I’m over there, telling me to— I snap at a mere movement. I can no longer close my eyes— they knew i was going to— to— I should have been braver and done it earlier!” Bob did not recognise Roger anymore. What did he want to do? He was crying now, and it was terrifying. “Before they broke my arm I was an inch away from giving in. From begging them to stop talking, to turn off the lights and just leave me alone, in peace! I want peace, Denys. I want to fall asleep— I—” Roger then stumbled, but Cavendish caught him before he could fall. Roger wrapped his left arm around Cavendish’s waist, and sobbed against his chest. “I want the voices to be silent. I want to make the guilt go away.”

“Please Roger, don’t say that,” Cavendish said, his hand making soothing motions in Roger’s hair. “No one blames you, if only you could see. You— you were the one holding everything in place, you cannot give up now. Not after everything that happened.” _Yes he can… yes he can. Fuck!_

“After everything that happened— after everything I went through— four years in the bag. So many people dead because of me!” Roger’s voice was raw with desperation, his sentences broken by sobs and hiccups. “Not a second to rest. And now Mac is— I see his face with my waking eyes. When they talk to me, they have his voice. I— I see him, so brave, begging me to hold on. To be strong for him. I can still feel him in my arms. It’s the end, I— I lost, I want to give up.”

 _No._ That was not possible. Roger never gave up. He was the one who always got up after he fell down, the one who always fought. He had been the beacon of hope in the camp, the harbinger of War. Bob remembered clearly that on the day they had all arrived in the new camp; when a battered Roger had been led inside by the goons, all eyes had followed him with silent reverence. Roger was the antithesis of giving up. _I must have misheard. This is so wrong. It’s not him._

“Roger, if you give up… we all will. We would have followed you to the bitter end you know.”

Bob had to agree with Cavendish. It was infuriating to admit it, but Roger had the power of a magnet to them. He had given them the power to rise again and walk with their head high. In a secret part of himself, Bob admitted that he would have followed him again, from his own free will. Yet, his mind denied that fact. It was easier right now, when Roger was collapsing on himself. 

“I know. I am so grateful… I do not even know how to voice it. I’m not good when it comes to feelings. If only Mac was here. If only— he was here with me, at the end of all things. He would have known what to say. How happy I was to have all of you by my side those years,” _Stop, stop, I might cry. Too bad I don’t believe a word you say… or do I? “_ The Organisation, planning the escapes… it kept me alive. Now, if I may ask one last favour— before they can— before I crumble, please,” Roger pushed himself away from Cavendish, locking eyes with him. “Kill me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for your love and support, I hope you liked this chapter, I promise I won't be late for the next one :)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness, hope you like this chapter. There might be a few typos left, but I will go over it again in the next few days when I am less tired :)

“No!”

Bob had instinctively jumped up, shouting. He did not know what had taken over him, because, to be honest with himself, he thought that he had grown to hate Roger. He was constantly angry at him, he wanted to see him as an uncaring, cold semi-God. Why on Earth then had he reacted like that? _Do I want him dead? Can I hate him that much? No. No._ _I_ — Both Cavendish and Roger looked at him. Shock in their eyes. The timeless moment they were stuck in had been broken. _I_ —

“I don’t want anybody else to die, Roger.” _Even you._

The light in Roger’s eyes changed when he looked at Bob. Bob was not able to decipher what it meant, but it was wrong. The tears had cracked his usually cold gaze, giving it colours that Bob was not ready to see. It was almost as if Roger saw right through him, beyond, looking at a place Bob could not see. 

“You— you do not understand.” Roger did not seem to be bothered by the fact that Bob had eavesdropped on the conversation. His voice was softer than Bob remembered. _Too far gone already. No, I can’t allow it. You don’t get the easy way out._ “It’s not about me. It never was about me… my death is the only solution.”

Bob’s blood turned cold, burning ice in his veins, as if he was the one about to die. Roger’s words were so hopeless, yet so full of determination that he had to try to convince him to think twice. He had to, he felt it deep within himself. He would have hit him if it had helped.

“You never give up! Not you! The last time they had you, it turned out alright. Besides, death is never a solution.” _Even if I hate you. Your mad ideas won’t kill anyone else as long as I have a say in the matter! I won’t let you!_

Roger smiled, a sad smile shadowed by the veil of the past. He got closer to Bob, who had to fight the urge to take a few steps back.

“The last time they had me, I— it was different. I had hope.” Bob could nearly hear it, the unspoken words. The last time I was not alone. _You had Mac._

“There is still hope Roger. Hope for the future. Mac would never forgive you. He wanted you to stay alive, think of his sacrifice.”

Roger’s eyes turned icy, and he looked more like himself like he had for the past hours. Dangerous. _This was a low blow, I know… sorry?_

“Mac. Is. Dead. What he wanted— what he died for? It doesn’t matter! God—” In a few words, Roger’s voice went from harsh to broken. “I— I am sorry Mac, I— Look at how I am. I cannot think straight. Remember how I was yesterday.” _Oh. Were you not your usual self then? I could have been fooled._ “I do not trust myself anymore, I can feel myself breaking. The next time they take me, I— I will lose my mind. I cannot allow it. For everything I ever believed in and fought for. If I still have a shred of dignity and pride. I have to put an end to it. Before they do— I— staying alive isn’t worth it.”

 _Fuck._ Bob felt something snap inside him. _Staying alive._ At that moment, for Bob, staying alive was everything that should matter to a man. Staying alive allowed one to heal, staying alive was everything you had, in the end. _You can’t do this. You can’t ask us to be strong if you cannot face_ — _That is what he said. He has been strong for too long a time already. Have you not though Bob, why are you able to be strong now? What fuels your will to live? What makes you so different from him?_ Deep inside, Bob knew that there was no way Roger would ever change his mind. He had always been stubborn to the point of being obstinate and insufferable. If he was already dead for himself, nothing could keep him alive. Roger spoke again, his eyes burning Bob’s soul. 

“I would have done it myself, that’s why they broke my arm.” He gestured to Bob’s hand, “I cannot ask you to do it, besides I trust Dennis entirely to carry out the job.”

Cavendish looked at them at the mention of his name. He had kept himself safely out of the conversation, not moving from his position by the cot, and looked sad but resigned. 

“I suppose he doesn’t have a say in the matter, does he?” Bob asked, realising the moment the words left his mouth how impolite it was to speak of Cavendish this way when he was so close. Cavendish did not seem to mind though, and shrugged. It wad infuriating how he could keep up that tight upper lip behavious sometimes, when Bob knew how vulnerable he could be, and how this had to be affecting him.

“He may not speak his mind as loudly as you do Hendley,” Roger said, looking at Cavendish. “I know I am asking much. I also know that he understands. Don’t you Dennis?”

“Yes,” Cavendish answered, his voice solemn. “I do not want to do it Roger. I tried to convince you to change your mind, but I understand; and if it is a necessity, if you wish to do it, then I shall comply.” 

Bob could very well see and hear the ‘anything to make you forgive me. Anything to atone for my sins. Anything to make our guilt go away. This was wrong. This was so wrong. But what could Bob do? He had no power, no way to make Roger reconsider. He needed to accept that fatality. 

Roger smiled then, a smile that was disturbingly alive, then cleared his throat. He turned his head towards Bob and said:

“Hendley— thank you, for questioning my actions and my words. It was—” _a change?_ “I cannot say I appreciated it, but now that I— it was a necessity. Thank you.” 

_What? Am I dreaming? Is he really thanking me for being the only one who ever spoke up? Maybe he’s saying that to clear his conscience. Yes, that must be it. He plays the brave martyr but he must be so afraid. I know I would be, and I think that I see past his words… I hope so. Then stop hoping. He made his mind._

Roger walked up to Cavendish then, and took his hands in his. His voice was so genuine it made breathing harder for Bob. “You know how sorry I am to have to ask you this Dennis. Yet we all know the stakes. What’s part of the job.” _Like your damned pride!_ “Thank you for being here all along. I will never be able to tell you how grateful I am. I will never forget what you did for me.” _Yes you will Roger, once you’re dead._

Cavendish’s hands tightened their grip around Roger’s, and his own gratefulness was transparent in his eyes. “Thank you sir, for everything you did for us.” He took a deep breath. “Allow me to knock you out then. It will make it easier for me to— and for you too.”

_No!_

Roger nodded, “Yes sure.” He sat down on the cot, and put his left hand on his lap, fist balled, then opened it, and finally laid the hand flat on his thigh. He closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. “Go ahead.” Bob could have sworn he had heard a tremor in his voice. Fear. Pure fear, yet so controlled. What was going through Roger’s mind at that moment? _Mac_ — _I hope you’re with him._ Cavendish then bended slightly his legs to have more strength and be closer to Roger’s _relatively short_ _— sitting_ height. He closed his fist, only leaving the forefinger and middle finger together, firm. He took a swing, not touching Roger, to find the right spot. His fingers hovered just an inch above the dent between Roger’s collarbones. Cavendish drew his arm back, taking a deep breath Bob could see the tears in his eyes. He was going to hit Roger’s throat when, much to Bob’s relief, he hesitated. His hand got closer to Roger’s neck again. 

“Goodbye Roger.”

Cavendish then pressed his two fingers right in the spot he had been planning to hit, the digits viciously digging into the supple flesh. Roger did not move, did not flinch. Bob saw his eyeballs move, a barely perceptible jerk, and heard a faint sound. Roger’s body collapsed into Cavendish’s arms, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading, thank you for your love and support, and see you next week! <3


	25. Chapter 25

“Why did you do that?” shouted Bob. He could not keep it inside anymore. It hurt him like he was the one who would soon die, and he did not understand why.

Cavendish positioned Roger’s body to sit on the cot. With his broken arm, pale skin and limp head, Roger looked like some kind of abandonned puppet. “He asked me to,” Cavendish then answered with a strangled voice, not meeting Bob’s eyes. 

That was not a good reason. Bob had never really done what people asked of him, complying only when he could get a prize out of the situation. He did not understand then, how someone could answer that so naturally. 

“But no one’s forcing you,” Bob argued. “As long as he is unconscious, you don’t have to obey his order.” For a smooth talker like Bob, this was quite a poor try. His thoughts were a mess of panic incomprehension, _why is he doing it, why can’t Roger be normal, why am I_ _— why is this affecting me so much?_ He had to gather these thoughts together before he could hope to convince Cavendish. 

“No, I don’t have to obey. It doesn’t have anything to do with obediance, or duty,” Cavendish answered as if it was obvious. “He did not pull rank on me, and it would not have been necessary. He is my friend Hendley. He placed his trust in me, and I know his reasons for wanting to suicide himself. He would have done the same for us.”

Bob felt a pang of jealousy at such a heartfelt display of trust. He remembered cleary how Roger and Cavendish had fought. _Friends, huh._ He did not understand. But there had to be more to it. That Cavendish would want so bad to make amends, to be forgiven… that he would soop so low as to kill someone... _So it is a mercy killing then._ _Huh._ _Let’s try a low blow, it might work._

“Roger would do the same? Allow me to be dubious about this.”

“No. I know the two of you don’t get along very well,” _Well, if that isn’t an understatement! I was being honest though._ “And that’s okay, these surroundings are the worst, and it’s hard not to tear at each other’s throats and play the Gestapo’s game, but don’t dare to question what Roger would have done. He is a good man, he knows what has to be done, even when it is not something pleasing. Even when it does not match his moral standards. Had one of us asked him to _—_ to _—_ he would have done it. He cares about each and every one of us, although he does not show it like he used to.”

Bob did not know what to say anymore, nor how to argue. He did not understand Cavendish. _Did he really mean that much to you? How did you forgive him so easily? You say he cared… did he?_ In the darkest part of his heart, Bob was envious of Roger’s charisma. Even under the worst circumstances, even when he begged to die, he still held his men in the palm of his hand. The con-man in Bob was jealous, it was as simple as that. And when he was jealous, he was not a nice man anymore. Had Roger cared for his men? Perhaps. But Bob wanted to believe he hismelf did not care about that anymore. 

“The Gestapo will gladly put a bullet through his brain. Let them do the job. Besides it’s selfish! Who will get to mercy kill us if _—_ ” Bob regretted his words the very instant they left his mouth. 

He would never have said that under any other circumstances, it was so inhumane. As much as his con-man self wished he was not, Bob was still devastated. The raw emotion in Cavendish’s words and voice had touched him more than he thought it would. He had the hardest time in the world admitting that it was easy to blame Roger, easy to hate him and spit on him now that he was unconscious. He had been honest when he had said he that he did not want anybody else to die. He would have given anything to any power above them to prevent a new senseless death. 

Before Cavendish could answer, Bob put his good hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry, I know I’m making this harder for the both of us. I should not _—”_

“I don’t blame you," Cavendish answered. "I know it must be difficult for you. If you had told me two months ago I’d kill someone, I would not have believe you. But it’s the right thing to do. You don't have to _—_ ”

“No. I’ll help you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

The relief and gratefulness in Cavendish’s eyes then was beyond words. He tried to smile, and answered:

“Thank you. I think I should do it now, our time before they come back is running short.” 

Bob nodded, and Cavendish retrieved Mac’s coat which laid forgotten on the floor. Bob saw him fidget with the stitches of a wrist -pulling at them, tearing them with his teeth- until finally he pulled out something that kind of looked like a piece of string. Upon closer inspection, Bob noticed that it was in fact a long shoelace. 

“Why did Mac have a shoelace hidden in his coat?” asked Bob, curiosity overthrowing his wariness. Cavendish tested its solidity by tugging on each end before answering: 

“You could request Griff to put party favours in your suits, you just had to ask. Mac told me he had it the last time we were alone in the cell, when you were unconscious. He told me that he wanted to be prepared if anything untoward was to happen to him or Roger.” _Yes sure. It does sound like him to be cautious… No. I had never thought you the suicidal type Mac. Bob, you fool, it’s not the same, it’s_ _— you knew you would never survive without the other._

Cavendish seemed satisfied with the sturdiness of the lace, because he looped it around Roger’s neck. _What would you have done then, if the lace had not been strong enough? Strangled him with your bare hands?_ Bob was holding Roger’s head with his good hand to help Cavendish have more space to act. He wanted to let go of it, to hide as far away as was possible from this… murder scene. _It’s not a murder. It’s assisted suicide. I should not feel guilty._

Cavendish tightened the lace, and Bob wondered if it would snap. If Cavendish’s nerves would snap. Or worse, if Roger would wake up. But nothing of the sort happened. The brown string cut deeper and deeper into Roger’s neck. His face was beginning to take a purple, blueish colour, yet his features remained eerily calm. _He cannot suffer now, can he? This is why Cavendish knocked him out, right?_ Bob thought that time had stopped, that a century had passed until Cavendish eventually let go of the shoelace. His hands were trembling and he was breathless. He took Roger’s limp wrist in his hand and took his pulse. 

“It’s done.”

_It’s done then. At least you get to be with Mac. Goodbye Roger, I never liked you. I guess that I grew accustomed to see your sullen and scarred face. I supposed we could have gotten along, under different circumstances._

Cavendish moved Roger so he was lying down on the cot, and put Roger’s good arm in pose symmetric to his injured one, on his chest, then combed a few strands of hair away from his forehead. He whispered a few words too low for Bob to hear, then covered Roger with Mac’s coat. Bob felt guilt start to seep into his veins, poisoning his own body. He tried to stay calm, but one glance at Roger’s corpse was enough to make his heart speed up with barely concealed panic. They had killed him. _No, I did nothing, I am innocent! I never wanted to kill anyone, I_ _—_

“What _—_ What happens now?” He asked, his voice shaky despite his best efforts.

“Now? We wait for the Gestapo to realise that we’ve helped him kill—”

“You.” _You killed him. I did nothing!_

“Very well,” Cavendish sighed. He sat down by the cot. He looked exhausted. “We wait for them to realise that _I_ have helped him kill himself, and then we, oh sorry, _I_ pay for it.”

Bob was silenced by the cutting reply. It was only logical though. The feelings of panic and dread crept up his spine, making him feel nauseous. When they would discover Roger’s corpse, the Gestapo would want to know what had happened. They would not be happy to learn that someone had broken their toy on purpose, of that Bob was certain. Cavendish was right then. They would pay. _But I did nothing! It’s not right, I’m still innocent!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chater... although we lost yet another of our boys, may he rests in peace.  
> Thank you once again for your love, support, comments, and can you believe I almost posted on time?


	26. Chapter 26

They waited for a long time then, light fading from the window, light coming back, dimmer than ever. The cell seemed smaller too, as if it size shrank each time someone died. Bob decided not to dwell on this too much. His head hurt. He wanted to do something, _anything_ , to forget about Roger being dead. He was also feeling bad for how he had reacted. Bob wanted to comfort Cavendish, to say sorry, to take him in his arms and share the blame, the guilt, yet a sick feeling was holding him back. He was afraid. Afraid of the consequences they would both face for a decision he had not taken. For an act he had been opposed to. He was afraid, and worse, he was sad. He could not bear to look at Roger. He sat down beside Cavendish. 

“I— am sorry. I should not have said _—”_ The words were stuck in Bob’s throat, as if he was the one being choked with a shoelace. He should not have said anything, but the walls remembered the words, and Cavendish would remember them too, when the Gestapo would come for them. 

“Let it go. I cannot hold it against you. You never knew Roger. You should have seen him before...”

Cavendish’s words aroused Bob’s curiosity. Of course, he had not known Roger for as long as some other men in the camp. A year, and he had thought it was enough to make himself an idea of who Roger was, but still… he was clueless as to who Roger had been before. Bob smiled and asked for Cavendish to go on. “Before his first stay in the Gestapo’s care I suppose?”

“Yes. He was—” Cavendish closed his eyes, as if to recall a time long past. “He was the sun then. He breathed life into our very cores. I had just been shot down, and on my first week in the camp, he came to see me. I had heard of him, and here he was, asking innocent questions to know if I could be useful to the barely born X Organisation. You should have seen the fire in his eyes, in his words. He was the Queen, the King, the War. He was our anchor, keeping us from going wire happy and giving us a purpose. He would talk about his mad plans to the bunch of us for hours. And we would believe him, and we would make it work… we loved him.”

Bob could easily imagine such a blessed time. He had heard other members of the X Organisation refer to it several times, hushed tones and nostalgic smiles. It was before they shot you in the back for escaping. This war had been young, and escaping was seen by some officers like a big game. A sport competition. He imagined Roger then, younger, ruthless yet so much more… alive. Caring. As charismatic as ever.

“He smiled then, Hendley,” Cavendish went on. “He smiled, and with that smile he could have eaten the whole world. He was so charismatic. He had that aura around him, a golden halo that would make every other opportunity look bleak. He still had that aura in the end. It had darkened… but I’m certain you felt it you too.”

 _Yes._ “Yes I did.” _I followed him too. I was drawn to him. I won’t admit it though._ “He was a fantastic leader. Truth be told, I don’t think that anybody else would have ever been able to do what he did there.”

Cavendish nodded with a sad smile. “All of this, it kept him alive. I think— none of us wanted to believe how damaged he was in the end. Roger, he— he would not show his pain. He did not want us to think he was weak, but we never would have thought so.” _Would I have thought he was weak, had he told me? Weak, or uncaring, which is worst, when neither is true?_ “Roger was anything but weak, but whatever the Gestapo did to him the first time… they broke something inside him, and he would not allow anyone near enough to see it.”

“No one but Mac," Bob said matter-of-factly. 

“No one but Mac,” Cavendish repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “Roger’s only weakness. Love is a funny thing, is it not, Hendley?” 

Bob did not answer. Roger watched them from afar, peacefully asleep. _Love._ Bob wondered if Roger had talked to Mac about what the Gestapo had done to him, or if Mac had guessed without words. He wondered what Roger had felt when he had understood the Gestapo would use Mac against him. What he had felt the moment he realised Mac would die for him. Love was indeed a funny thing. _Losing a friend is hard enough._ For a second, Bob saw himself in Roger’s place. He felt a sharp pain pierce his head, and his eyes closed on their own accord. He felt as is he was falling and paralysed at the same time, his chest tight. _I too, would have begged to die. Then why don’t you?_

“Don’t you ever wonder what’s holding you back from giving up? Why do you hold on and try to survive?” Cavendish’s voice brought Bob brutally back. It was as if barely a second had passed. Cavendish was standing up now, rearranging Roger’s body to cover the lower half of his face with the coat. Why was he asking this now? _Why do I_ — 

“What about you?” Bob asked, and for half a second he asked himself if he cared, but then why had Cavendish had asked in the first place?

“Me?” Cavendish asked, sitting back down. “I don’t know. I guess I have accepted my fate. I do not hope for rescue, or for an opportunity to escape. I— I just wish they’ll make it quick.”

Acceptance. Bob was not sure he believed him. Perhaps Cavendish did not give up because he had already given up, and his guilt had tricked him into accepting death. Bob felt something inside him snap, and he began to laugh. He laughed until his belly hurt and tears were falling from his eyes. 

“They’re going to kill us when they see what we’ve done!” _No! You did not do anything._ “Oh God the faces they will make! They will be so angry, we will never survive! There is no hope!” He went on laughing, his mind sending off alarms, trying to calm him. _It was not the moment to be so silly!_ Their situation was dire, and the Gestapo’s fury would be even worse. Yet, as the absurdity of everything finally made sense for Bob, all the deaths, all the suffering. He laughed. Laughed and laughed, and laughed until the walls were shaking. _There is no hope— no hope!_

Cavendish looked worryingly at Bob while he was laughing, yet he most likely understood that this was not mirth at all but some sort of nervous breakdown. A glimpse into Bob’s conflicted mind. Over the laughter, Cavendish barely heard several men talk behind the door. Bob did not pay attention to them at all, and was surprised when he felt Cavendish’s elbow jab in his side. _CALM DOWN!_

“What was that for?” Bob said, breathless. _Get a hold of yourself man!_

“Somebody is coming. Try to calm down, please?”

Cavendish had barely finished his sentence that they heard the keys turn into the lock. Bob had succeeded in stopping his fit of laughter, yet his cheeks were still red and his eyes full of nervous tears. _Love. Survive._ Four soldiers came in the cell. 

“What is this noise?” One of them asked, gun drawn. _Oh no!_ It was over, thought Bob. It could only be over. They would realise Roger was dead, and the would kill them. He felt cold sweat bead down his back. _I_ — 

“What noise? Did you hear anything?” answered Cavendish, flashing an insolent smirk. 

_I don’t want to die._

The soldier who had talked looked venomously at Cavendish. “We heard you laugh.”

In the meantime, another soldier was circling the cell, and of course, he noticed Roger’s body, unmoving, covered by the coat. _I don’t want to die._

“Is he sleeping?” The soldier asked, disdain clear in his voice. Bob could not bear to look at the cot. _Please no._ _I don’t want to die._

“Yes he is,” Cavendish answered, and he was not smiling anymore. “His injured arm tires him very much.” 

“Wake him up,” the soldier said, thankfully not touching Roger. “Herr Preissen will want to see him soon, and he’d better be ready.” 

They left then, and Bob took a deep breath. _Breathe. Calm down. It’s okay_ — _for now._

“Are you okay?” asked Cavendish, laying a hand on Bob’s shoulder. _No, not really._

“No— I don’t know what took over me. I just snapped. It is—”

“It’s fine,” Cavendish answered, his hand moving in soothing circles over Bob’s shoulder, and Bob found himself leaning into the gesture. “Who could still be sane after what we went through?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.” I _don’t want to be there. I don’t want to die._ “I really thought that they were going to realise the truth.”

“They are, it’s only a matter of time,” Cavendish answered with a sigh. _You are not helping there. Not at all_ — _I don’t know what makes me hold on… but I know I don’t want to die._

But it was indeed only a matter of time. A few hours later, a guard came back in. It was the usual one who brought food and water. As he walked closer to the cot, Cavendish maintained a perfect poker face, while Bob had balled his good hand and was digging his nails into his palms. _Everything is going to be alright. This one is relatively calm…_ The guard went to the back of the cell to retrieve the empty plate and give them the new rations, and, on his way out, bumped quite heavily into the cot. He stayed unmoving a few seconds, as if thinking, then left the room. 

_Oh thank God_ —

They had no time to feel relieved for long though, as the guard came back a few minutes with six colleagues. _Oh no. God No_ — _He did not_ — _it’s the end._ One lifted the coat while another took out his weapon, pointing it in Bob and Cavendish’s direction. Not that they would have run. Roger’s face was looking eerily serene, he could have been asleep; but his skin looked clay-like and his lips were blue. Bob could barely breathe when he saw a soldier expose Roger’s neck, with the shoelace still tied around it. 

**_“Strangled?”_ ** asked one of the soldiers to the one that seemed to be their superior.

**_“Yes. Take the two of them to Preissen. Now! Yes, we’re taking the corpse too.”_ **

Even if he did not understand the meaning of the words, Bob knew very well what would happen now. He tried to calm his mind as much as possible as a soldier cuffed him. Cavendish suffered the same fate. They were then led by two soldiers in the labyrinth of corridors again, towards an only too well-known destination. Bob’s mind was blank for once, a white noise that did not make sense anymore. Behind them, four others were carrying Roger’s corpse. Bob kept casting quick glances at Cavendish, who had his face set in a strange mask of calm. Finally, they entered the room, where Preissen was sitting at his desk with what looked like a cup of coffee. He was reading through numerous files, and looked at them, visibly annoyed at having been disturbed. 

**_“What?”_ ** He asked, not quite shouting. **_“I never ordered them to be brought to me! You were to wait until Bartlett_ ** — ** _”_**

The four soldiers that were holding Roger’s body stepped forward. Preissen, whose eyes had gone from annoyed to puzzled to furious rearranged his glasses on his nose. He got up from his chair and went to see Roger’s body that the guard had laid on the floor. 

A soldier held Roger’s head back and pointed to the angry welt that was circling the neck, to the still-tied lace, talking quickly. Preissen took the pulse himself and muttered something under his breath. There was a seething aura around him that sent chills down Bob’s back.

Preissen sat back behind his desk then, without a word, and gestured for Bob and Cavendish to be led to the chairs facing the desk. 

**_“Call Dietrich. Quickly!”_ **

Bob was terrified. Something bad was about to happen, and he did not know what. He did not know when, and why were they waiting? Why was it taking so much time? Bob imagined that Cavendish was equally distressed but he looked as calm faced as ever. Bob caught a glimpse of determination in his eyes. They waited. Cavendish did not move and Bob had the feeling that his own crazy heartbeat could be heard in the whole room. His mind was still thankfully silent, as if it knew it was the end.

  
Dietrich arrived hours later. He quickly saluted Preissen and the two began to speak quickly in German. They often pointed to Roger’s corpse, still on the floor, sometimes they looked at Bob and Cavendish. Bob wished very hard that he spoke German. He had never been so powerless in regards to his fate. Cavendish had been right. They both would pay, innocence meant nothing to them. Innocence had never meant anything in this place. _I_ — 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that I did not miss any typo or mistake.  
> Thank you very much for reading and for being here, stay safe!


	27. Chapter 27

_I_ — _I don’t want to die._

Bob closed his eyes when Dietrich went to stand behind his chair. Bob could almost feel Dietrich breathing death down his neck. Sweat was beading on his brow, and for half a second he imagined Dietrich pulling out his gun and shooting him. Bob was afraid, _downright terrified._ But Dietrich only stood there for a few seconds before moving to stand in a similar fashion behind Cavendish’s chair. “I think that the two of you have some explanations to give.” 

Neither Bob nor Cavendish answered. Preissen, stood up, not a word, and left the room. Dietrich took his place at his desk, hands laying before him and fingers crossed together. “You won’t win this one. We have all the time in the world. You do not. Now I will ask once… ” Dietrich’s voice was precise, clipped tones that reeked of danger. “Which one of you did this? Only the guilty will be punished.” Dietrich’s eyes were ice cold, and Bob tried his best not to fidget. _Stop looking at me! I am_ — _I_ — _My hand is broken I could not have– please Lord have mercy on me!_

“I did.” 

Dietrich seemed almost surprised that Cavendish would actually answer, and so soon. Bob was dumbstruck. _Does he want to take the full blame? Well technically, he did it… but then he_ — 

“Did you?” Dietrich asked, a small smile on his lips. “You are so eager to cooperate. You could very well be protecting your friend. Why should I believe you?” 

_Because he tells you so! Look at him you SS bastard_ — _look at my hand._

“Oh, Feel free not to believe me,” Cavendish answered, with so much calm it almost sounded unnatural. “But I know you know Hendley could not have done it since you broke his hand. Besides, Roger asked _me_ to put an end to his torment, as you did your job so well. Too bad you did not think of separating us. Or perhaps you don’t know how compassion works?”

Dietrich stoop up and bakchanded Cavendish. “It was foolish of you. You are going to wish you never did this. Trust me.”

Cavendish sneered then, blood trickling down his nose to his lips. _Pure bravado my friend. I see your fingers trembling._ “I shall never regret helping my friend and commanding officer,” he said, licking the blood off his lips and spitting it on the desk. “This was the right thing to do. I am in peace.”

Dietrich hit him a second, then a third time, and then picked up the phone, exchanging a few quick words with whoever -Preissen?- was on the other side.

 _They’re believing him? Thank God!_ Bob felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was so afraid at the mere idea of the pain that he could have faced… Yet now they would take revenge on Cavendish for having spoiled their fun. It would not be a quick death. Bob could see more clearly now why Cavendish acted that way though. He was proud, he had done his duty to a friend, and it was with his honour intact that he was led away to the back of the room. Bob, as he was dragged along by soldiers, felt eternally grateful. _You really are a fool. But you’re saving me, right? If only I could find a way to repay you. I am so sorry_ — _but I don’t want to die._

The soldiers took Cavendish’s clothes off and forced him to kneel on the stone floor. They cuffed his hands behind his back and then shackled Bob to a nearby chair. He had a perfect view of the scene, and knew he would be made an unwilling spectator of Cavendish’s torment. Dietrich soon joined them, but nothing else happened for long minutes. Bob was shaking with fear, _why are they taking so much time, what is going to happen?_ Truth be told, Bob did not want anything to happen. If he had a way to prevent anything from happening, he would have done so. He wanted to destroy the walls, to make eveything disappear. He closed his eyes. Waiting was the worst part of it. There was no way for the walls to fall down. Something was bound to happen soon. Punishment. _Please_ — 

Footsteps. Bob opened his eyes again. Preissen was walking in their directions, looking rather satisfied. He was carrying a file under his arm, and was wearing a long beige coat -similar to what he had worn the day they had brought Roger to the camp. He exchanged a few words with Dietrich, then walked over to Cavendish. 

“I should have known. Should have gotten rid of you at once. Well.” He turned towards Bob. “Let this be a lesson to you Hendley, see what happens to those who are found to be guilty.”

Bob did not answer, it was not worth it. Besides, he would not have trusted his tongue not to say something stupid, to beg… even if a part of his mind was relieved, not enough to be happy, but _oh my god they’re not going to hurt me not this time not again;_ another part of his mind was appalled. He was bound to see a man suffer for no real reason. A man who had had the bravery to help a friend to die, and to protect another one from suffering. Bob felt guilty. Guilty to have more chances of survival, less pain. His survival instincts squished this feeling instantly. _You should be glad! Try not to attract their attention and stop being a fool! See what happens to those who are found to be guilty._

Preissen went to collect a few more files from the desk, then shook Dietrich’s hand. “ ** _I leave him to you. Do your worst,_** ” he said. “ ** _I’ll be back tomorrow_**.” 

Once Preissen had left, Dietrich walked closer to Cavendish and touched his cheek. “What I am going to do with you… I am busy, you know. I had not planned this.”  
Cavendish did not react, though it was obvious to Bob how afraid he was, how disgusted feeling Dietrich’s hand on him had made him. Worse, Dietrich did not stop there. His hand travelled down to Cavendish’s neck and rested there as if he was pondering whether or not to choke him. But no, he did not. He let go, and Bob was relieved. His relief did not last long though, as Dietrich went to get something that looked like a very thin wire, which he looped around Cavendish’s neck. _No, please no_ — He tightened the wire until Cavendish's face became slightly purple -and he was struggling to break free, although kneeling and bound he had no chance- then untightened it. Cavendish tried to catch his breath, panting, eyes shut tight. As soon as his breath was not shaky anymore, Dietrich pulled on the wire again. Tears filled Bob’s eyes. He almost wished for Dietrich to go too far and kill Cavendish now, but nothing ever happened as he wished, and Dietrich got tired of this little game after a few minutes. 

“Be strong,” Cavendish whispered to himself as Dietrich left him alone and walked away. “You can be strong. you can be stronger than them, you can be stronger than them you can—” His voice died out as Dietrich came back. Bob wanted to take Cavendish in his arms, to spirit him away. _What are they going to do to him now?_ Dietrich was holding a long wooden rod, and laid it on the floor. _You should be more thankful it's not you!_ He took Cavendish by the shoulder and made him kneel on the rod. He then went to sit at the desk, and proceeded to ignore Bob and Cavendish, reading files. 

Bob did not know how much time passed. He was hungry, he was exhausted, but it was nothing in comparison to the apprehension, to the fear. _They cannot keep us here forever… can they?_ Bob tried to count time from then on, but he had abandonned by the time Preissen came back. He talked for some time with Dietrich, who then left. Bob was starting to see a pattern… but why? Were they getting bored or was it all a strategy? 

On Preissen’s order, a soldier forced Cavendish so stand up. His legs were shaking and he almost fell, only standing thanks to the soldier holding him. Bob could not ignore the red, bleeding welts on his knees from the forced position on the rod. He could not imagine the pain, did not want to, but it was there, he could almost feel it. The soldier then uncuffed Cavendish to tie him back up to shackles dangling for the ceiling, forcing him to rest on his toes. Bob closed his eyes in anticipation as Cavendish struggled to maintain his balance, his body weight pulling on his arms as his weakened legs refused to carry him anymore. 

“You look awful,” Preissen commented. “Did you reflect on what you did?”

“Sure did,” Cavendish answered through gritted teeth. Preissen chuckled, and he called three men forward. They were wearing SS uniforms, and the oldest could not be over twenty five. After a few words, Preissen went back to sit at the desk, watching the spectacle from afar. The three SS then took turn at beating Cavendish up. At first, the blows were cruel but not overly dangerous. The soldiers were using cudgels, and did not hit any vital points. Bob understood that they had orders to take their time, make Cavendish suffer as much as possible. Sometimes Preissen was there too, prowling, but he always left the room after some time. Sometimes Dietrich came back to throw one punch or two. Sometimes only the SS remained, but the blows never stopped. Bob fell asleep at one point, taken by exhaustion. When he came around again, Cavendish was still hanging by his arms, barely conscious. How much time had passed? _Please, leave him alone. He did nothing wrong… please._ Dietrich was now hitting Cavendish’s chest and upper back with an iron rod, and for the hours that followed, Bob was left to watch, alone with his thoughts and his ears bleeding to the sound of sharp intakes of breath and a few accidental whimpers. Cavendish had remained incredibly stoic, but for how long? Would they shoot him? _Please, make it quick_ — Since his capture, since his plane had been shot off in fact, Bob had been certain to survive. But how could he be so sure now? How? _They don’t plan for him to survive. They don’t care about us_ — _Does Cavendish care anymore? All this pain, all this nonsense_ — _if I was in his place I’d_ —

Bob’s thoughts were cut off by a heart-wrenching scream. He who had closed his eyes a few minutes ago opened them again and, bound to the chair, he watched helplessly as Dietrich applied a red-hot iron to the soles of Cavendish’s feet, burning them. He watched as he poured some liquid over the wounds, silent tears rolling down Cavendish’s cheeks. His lips were bitten raw, blood oozing down his chin and onto his neck. Bob wanted to cry. He wanted to scream, to beg for the SS to stop. How would Cavendish walk now? What if the wounds got infected? Yet nobody cared, and Dietrich began punching Cavendish again, alternating between vicious kicks to the crotch and punches at the neck. Bob felt the pain in his very core, even a few meters away, and could not help but to yelp a few times. _Shut up now! You’re going to attract their attention so just stop!_ When the pain became too much for Cavendish, he passed out, his body’s only way to protect itself. This did not seem to deter Dietrich, who went on hitting him like one would a punching ball before going to Preissen’s desk and to serve himself a cup of something, looking from time to time at Cavendish.

 _You bastards! Just get on with it! Unless_ — Bob felt cold sweat wet his back and brow. Would they torment him now? Did they consider that Cavendish was punished enough? _Please_ — _not me_ — _I’m not here._ The scars of his burns were hurting again. Memories. _No_ — _please_ — 

Dietrich passed Bob by though, not caring for his presence. Bob breathed out, more a sob than anything else. Preissen soon joined him, lighting a cigarette, looking almost appreciatively at Cavendish. _What is he_ — Bob closed his eyes, and tried his best to close his ears off, nothing would happen if he ignored it. _Nothing will happen if_ — Bob heard a raw scream of pain. Another one. Over the screams, he could decipher Preissen’s honeyed voice:

“You’re regretting now. Too bad. We told you you’d be shot… I guess it won’t be the case now. But don’t worry, you won’t live long.”

Bob opened his eyes again, against his own judgement, a sick curiosity plaguing his mind. He recongised the electrical torture device at once, and had to gather all his courage not to panic. _No_ — He hoped that he would not see Cavendish submitting to them, giving in to the pain. _Be stronger._ Bob felt weirdly proud when he saw Cavendish spit blood onto Dietrich’s pretty face. Small victories… _hold on please. Please, don’t die._ Bob felt his heart break as Cavendish was rewarded by another shock of electricity through his body. If he had not been so afraid, Bob would have thrown up, but his throat was clamped shut. His survival instincts were still in command, holding his body together under constant pressure and fear. The smell of burned flesh was choking Bob, making his eyes sting. After several more shocks, his body jerking each time the electricity was applied, Cavendish passed out again. Through the curtain of his tears Bob saw soldiers untie Cavendish and drag his unresponsive body out of the room. _It’s finished! Oh God_ — _does that mean? Untie me too! I want to leave! You are not going to hurt me too, yes? Please… I am innocent._ Bob was so hopeful, that when the soldiers untied him, it took him a few seconds to realise that he was not going out of the room but closer to the table where the torture instruments were laid. Closer to his fears and tormentors. Preissen then forced him to lie his left hand, his unbroken hand flat on the table, a soldier holding it at the wrist. He looked quite satisfied. 

_No no no no no!_ “No…” whimpered Bob. _Not me_ — _please_ — _not my hand_ —

“You understand that we cannot take risks anymore. **_Go ahead_ **.”

The soldier then took a clamp-looking device. Bob tried not to scream. _Be stronger, be stronger, be stronger_ — _be brave!_

In a matter of five minutes, the soldier had crushed to splinters the five fingers. Bob heard his voice break in time with the fragile bones. _Since when have you been brave?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa that chapter was tough to edit! (and the signal was hectic, but I am glad I managed to publish it) Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, now I am gonna cry in a corner because I love Cavendish, he is my little baby and I am so sorry for what I did to him (and to Bob too, of course. Poor boy) TT_TT


	28. Chapter 28

On the way back to the cell, Bob did not even try to hold back his tears.  _ My hands _ —  _ why _ —  _ What have I done to you? Why _ —  _ why _ —  _ why do you have to be so cruel? _ There were stars dancing in front of his eyes, tiny dots of pain that threatened to make him pass out as he walked.  _ What am I going to do now? How am I going to eat, how? How?  _ All thoughts about Cavendish or anybody else were swept away from his mind, swept away by the dark storm of pain engulfing him.

When the soldiers locked the cell’s door behind him, Bob fell down, his knees hitting the floor, his back against the door. He could not find his balance anymore, each time one of his hands touched something he jerked it away with a cry of pain. He was like a butterfly flailing on the ground after cruel children had plucked his wings. He wept then, lying on the floor, he wept for his fate until exhaustion took over him.

Time passed.

Less pain. There was less pain. His hands were numb, it was… better. Bob tried to open his eyes, but did not have the strength to, not yet. He tried to focus on his breathing, feeling the air in his lungs. For an instant, it seemed to smell less stale than he had expected it to. With each breath, Bob felt the panic rise again inside of him. _I am going to die. I am going to die, I don’t want to_ — Bob opened his eyes, grey ceiling, nothing had changed. _Please calm down. You’re not dead_ _yet… think of the outside, think of all the people waiting for you._ He got up by the strength of his legs alone, tried to blink away sleep and the remaining tears away from his eyes. He looked up at the black patch of the window, _the outside, the outside, think of the outside,_ looked around the cell, and saw Cavendish lying unconscious in the cell’s filth. He had probably been thrown inside by the guards without care, and had not woken up. Still, Bob could see the faint rise and fall of his chest. _Still alive. Thank God. I don’t want anybody else to die. Even you. Especially you. Don’t die on me. Don’t die here_ _._ Cavendish’s feet were a bloody, burned mess, and now that Bob was closer to him, he could see how badly Preissen and Dietrich had tortured him. Most of the spots that Dietrich had hit were of a purple-blackish colour, swollen. If Bob had thought that his own burns looked bad before, Cavendish’s were worse to the point that the mere sight of them made Bob nauseous. Nauseous and deeply sad too, the kind of sadness that crept in your veins when exhaustion took over from anger. They had not even given Cavendish his clothes back — _his face has not even had time to properly heal yet!_ Bob could not even imagine the pain Cavendish had felt. His own, so appalling at the time, seemed to be nothing in comparison. _He is sturdier than he looks. Oh Mac! How I hope you were right!_

Bob wanted to wash Cavendish’s wounds, to wake him up. To cradle his beaten body in his arms. To do something. He felt useless and wretched. He waited then, for the pain or thirst to wake him. There was nothing else he could do besides waiting. Would Cavendish wake up? _Don’t die, please. I don’t want to be alone._ Bob kept his eyes on him then, hoping to see a change, the twitch of a finger, the flutter of an eyelid. He did not wait for a long time, though, and Cavendish moved after a few hours, w _hat is time here anyway?_

It was a small movement, Bob almost missed it, but then Cavendish opened his eyes, clouded by pain, and his face had lost the serenity of unconsciousness. Bob wanted to ask him a stupid ‘are you all right?’ Something to make the situation less dreadful. He of course did not, and waited for Cavendish to re-acquaint himself with his surroundings before smiling to him. As if a smile would make things better.  _ Mac’s smile would have made things better. He always did.  _ Much to his surprise, Cavendish smiled back. It was more a grimace than a smile, but it made things a little bit better, or a second or two. 

“Hendley— they did not—” Cavendish’s voice was hoarse, but it filled the cell and, and it filled Bob’s heart. “Are you okay?”

“No,”  _ No I’m not okay! But it will never be worse than you so… _ “Yes— they did not punish me. They only…” Bob’s words died in his throat, and he looked at his hands. Cavendish followed his eyes and gasped, horror replacing the pain on his face. 

“Oh my God no, they did not!”

Bob nodded. “They wanted to prevent me from doing to you the same favour you did to Roger.” _Not like I would have done it anyway._ _Unless…_

“Smart,” Cavendish answered, an undercurrent of dry humour in his voice. Slowly, he tried to move into a half-sitting, half-lying position, limbs shaking, biting his lip. At least he still had his hands.

Bob felt a lump in his throat. He needed to talk to Cavendish. To say to him how sorry and grateful he was, and how brave his decision had been.  _ Not even a little bit foolish? He saved me!  _

“Thank you. You—” Cavendish looked puzzled, then realisation lit up his features. Bob went on talking. He needed to get the words out of his system, now, before it was too late.  _ All the things I want to say to you _ . “You suffered for the both of us, I— I’m ashamed, you—”  _ You killed him… you brave idiot! You did the right thing.  _

“Don’t be ashamed Hendley. I would not have allowed them to harm you. You are innocent, you–” he winced suddenly, eyes instinctively closing, then went on, voice strangled “you said it yourself. You are innocent, I am guilty, this is how things work.”

“I know. I am so sorry. I was not myself then.” _Yes you were yourself, stop denying it!_ _Yes I am… I am innocent!_ “You did not deserve any of this— this is— I should have talked too. I helped you after all.” Bob wanted to bury his head in his hands, to hide from his own self-hatred. He did not though, Cavendish keeping him prisoner of his eyes as he answered:

“Don’t worry. They made sure you’ll remain innocent. They don’t really care about you, do they? They know you have no information, nothing. Before they asked, they knew you could not have been the one to have killed Roger. So don’t say or regret anything. Sleep, heal and stay alive. There may be a chance that they will let you out.” 

_ See! You were right to be optimistic!  _ “You don’t really believe it, do you?” asked Bob. It was slightly out of character of him, to need comfort this much. To be the last man standing, it gave responsibilities he might not have wanted. He would never be ready for this, and more than ever, he wanted for Cavendish to survive. 

“Do we care?” The question echoed on the cell’s walls, the concrete distorting Cavendish’s voice into Roger’s, Mac’s, Colin’s, and Bob’s own voice.  _ Do we care? Do we care? Do you care? _

_ No, not anymore. To survive or to care for the truth. The least pleasing possibility _ — Bob smiled. There was nothing else he could do but smile, smile or cry, and his eyes were dry, drier than his parched throat. How long had it been since he had had water for the last time? He had been so afraid, so overwhelmed by the pain, so exhausted that he had forgotten about it. But he was thirsty. His mouth tasted of blood, and he yearned to wash it out. But how to drink with his broken hands? Tentatively, Bob took the jug of water between his forearms,  _ what if I spill it all, we won’t have anything to drink anymore. _ Some water fell to the floor and on his clothes, but he managed to drink some. He closed his eyes when the water touched his lips, enjoying the comfort of the  _ relatively  _ _nonexistent_ freshness of the water. It felt too good to be true. It felt so good he thought he would cry all the water he had just drunk.

“Do you want some?” Bob asked,  _ I should have asked first, if only I was not so self-centered! _

Cavendish nodded yes -and he did not seem to hold it against Bob- and Bob managed to put the jug back on the floor near him without spilling any more water. Cavendish tried to stand up and reach it but  cried out  and fell back on the floor, lying on his side. Before Bob could react, he tried again, pushing on his hands and legs until he was on all fours. He then managed to take the jug with both hands, and lifting it to his mouth, drank. He put the jug back down and collapsed on the floor. The contrast between his bruised, sweaty, pale skin and the dry, dirty concrete was striking. His breath was coming out in short gasps due to the effort of moving. Bob felt sick.  _ If only there was something I could _ —  _ you can.  _ Bob looked at the cot.  _ You can help.  _ Why had he not thought about it before? It would be better for Cavendish than the floor -not comfortable, of course not, nor clean, but better.

“We should try to move you to the cot,” Bob said. “I can’t leave you naked in the dirt, not with your injuries.”

“I’m afraid it’s useless. We have not washed ourselves in what? Three weeks? A month? Three months?” Cavendish chuckled, but it was more of a desperate sob. “My cuts will fester, some have already begun to, just take a look at my face.” 

Although Bob knew he was telling the truth, he was not going to change his mind. It was the least he could do. He could not leave Cavendish like that. “It does not matter.” He could not live with himself knowing he had not tried to do the next best thing, as useless as it might be. “You are in no state to stay like this. Be sensible.”

“No,” Cavendish argued back. “take the cot. I will most certainly die—” _ Yes! Take the cot Bob! You still have a chance, he says the truth! Bob! Listen to your brain! _ “Tetanus, septicemia, whichever takes me… it’s the matter of a few days now. You can survive, you should—”  _ Yes! Think of survival! _

“No. I’ll lift you up.” Bob’s voice had sounded so sure, yet he could not even bend his fingers and even less carry someone. “You get the cot, even for a few days. I won’t let you die on the floor like a stray dog! Not after what you’ve done for me.” 

Bob then braced himself for the pain to come, and gingerly lifted Cavendish up using more his forearms than his hands. His eyes filled up with tears when a pain worse than he had imagined shot through his hands and arms. Cavendish wrapped his arms around Bob’s neck, his whole body trembling. He felt more than he heard a muffled cry against his neck as he must have touched a burn, a bruise, he could not prevent this. Bob managed to walk the few steps that separated them from the cot. He laid Cavendish down as gently as he could, helping him cover himself with Mac’s coat. He was rewarded by a sincere smile, lopsided by pain. Was there an inch of his body that was not painful?

“Thank you Hendley—” Cavendish said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He closed his eyes and squeezed Bob’s shoulder with his hand. “Thank you for being here.”

The warmth spreading through his shoulder was pleasant, and Bob wished he could touch his hand, reciprocate.  _ You saved me.  _ He smiled a smile Cavendish would not see, and hoped his voice carried all his gratefulness. “Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of you. There is still hope.”  _ You don’t believe that, do you? Yes. I do. Even for a second, even for a time, as long as I am alive, I will hope. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here! I am almost not late! :D I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that I did not leave too many typos. Thank you again for your love and support <3


	29. Chapter 29

One gets acquainted to pain, or so Bob had heard before. It might have been true, but aphorisms were of no help in his situation. The pain in his left hand was so intense that it indeed numbed the old pain in his right hand, but it did not make things better. Cavendish had fallen asleep some time ago, and Bob had tried to rest too then, but sleep eluded him. He could not forget the pain long enough to fall asleep, he did not know what to do with his arms and legs to find a good position on the floor. Bob had nothing better to do then than watch Cavendish sleep, and wish he could join him on the cot, under the coat. _I wonder if he has any chances of survival. Well, he says I’ve got a chance to get out of this, but how? Why? Why would they let me go after everything? Who could convince them?_ Bob listened to his thoughts going nowhere, trying to focus on these inside voices to dull the pain and lull him to sleep. Sometimes though, a strand of thought would get louder than the others, _They’re going to come back for us! They’re going to kill us, kill_ — A sick feeling crept into Bob’s guts before he had the time to snuff out the voice. _They are going to come back._ Perhaps they were going to come back, but there was no noise coming from the outside. Nothing but silence, as if the cell was out of the world. There was nothing to do but wait. And so Bob waited, despite the silence, despite the pain and despite the hunger that was gripping at his guts. He waited not to be alone again. _Should I be waiting? All around is turning to death and dust… Is there still a world outside? Will I see it again? I do hope, that’s there somebody waiting for me. That I have not been forgotten?_ “Should I be hopeful?”

No one besides Bob heard his words, and the cell remained silent. The air did not move, and Bob was accustomed to the smell, to the dim light. He did not notice the subtle differences between day and night anymore. _Should I be hopeful?_

Bob only had to wait until the sounds and lights of the world reached the cell again.

_There is still hope._   
  


How many hours had passed before Cavendish woke up, Bob did not know. It could very well have been fifteen minutes. He saw Cavendish move from the corner of his eye. The coat slipped a litte bit, exposing the dark bruises on his arms and chest. Before Bob could say anything, _hello_ , _are you still alive? are you still in pain? Of course he is, don’t_ — Cavendish opened his eyes, unfocused, clouded by pain. He slowly sat up and readjusted the coat on his body.

“Looks like we are still alive,” he said in raspy voice -but smiled nonetheless. How he could smile in such a situation, Bob did not understand, but it was a welcome sight.

“I guess so,” Bob answered. _I hope so._ He was in too much pain to be dead yet. The afterlife -or lack of- was not supposed to be this painful. “You— how are you?”

Cavendish stretched his arms with a wince of pain. “Just like you might expect.” Cavendish’s face had more colours than before -almost like a flush- and his eyes were strangely shining. He looked drained, exhausted, but better than he had been the day before. 

Bob did not answer, because what was there to say? What could they talk about? What could they do? It was not as if their injuries would evolve much in such a short lapse of time. Bob heard his stomach grumble, and cursed internally. Still alive indeed. If he had been a circus acrobat he would have been able to eat with his feet. _Don’t I have something more important to think about? Besides my feet are too dirty._

“I’m getting pretty hungry too,” Cavendish commented, “but I guess it’s not going to be easy.”

Bob nodded, looking at his hands. The bandaged one was less painful that before, a dull never-ending ache, but the fingers were crooked in a position that send shivers down his spine. The other one was swollen, purple, the fingers in an even worse state. Moving it was out of the question. Cavendish went on:

“You cannot use your hands, and I would prefer not to put my feet on the ground, the pain is enough without getting them any dirtier.” _Oh my God how are we going to manage everything? Let it end_ — _let us out…_ “I have an idea though. If I could grab for the plate, then I could feed us.”

_What? No no no no no– It’s not that much a bad idea in fact._

There was no harm in trying. As carefully as possible, Bob nudged the plate closer and closer to the cot with his foot. There, Cavendish was able to lift it without moving too much. Bob then sat down beside the cot, and slowly, Cavendish began to break the bread into small pieces and fed some of them to Bob before chewing on a few himself. A rational part of Bob’s mind was ashamed at the very fact of being fed like a baby, while another one was simply grateful. So grateful. Eating felt good too. It was nowhere near full and well-fed -and the bread tasted somehow like sawdust and antiseptic at the same time- but it cemented this feeling of being alive. It gave substance to his body, and although the hunger did not go away, it was not as gnawing as before. And since this method of mutual help seemed to work, Bob took the jug to Cavendish, who made them both drink a few blessed mouthfuls of water. 

To show his gratitude, Bob offered his shirt to Cavendish to use it as a cloth to wash his wounds. He would probably regret it later, but at the moment it seemed like the right thing to do. To help each other, as long as they could, to preserve their humanity and dignity. Bob could sacrifice parts of his shirt for that. _Besides, summer’s bound to come. I won’t get cold if I survive until summer._

“I should use it to bandage your hand first then,” Cavendish answered. “I’m afraid there is not much to do for your fingers, but keeping them immobile will perhaps help.”

Bob nodded. He hoped it would help, or at least prevent them from getting worse, and braced himself for the pain that would come. Cavendish tore a few strips from the bottom of Bob’s shirt. Bob bit his lip to keep from crying out, and Cavendish tried to work as quickly and efficiently as he could. _Will my hands ever be the same again?_

“Thank you,” said Bob, hoping his voice carried how thankful he actually felt but knowing it sounded strangled and pained. “I wish there was more I could do to help you.” _After everything you’ve done..._

“Don’t. There’s nothing you can do, and I got the feeling that it’s pointless. I am just buying what? A few minutes, hours maybe?” While saying this, Cavendish tore yet another strip of Bob’s shirt and wet it in the jug. He tried to reach for his feet, the pain in his back obvious. He managed to clean off most of the dirt and dried blood; but even to Bob, the wounds looked like they would not heal well. _Just like the burns on his face. God_ — The area around them was swollen and an angry red. An inch from being infected, but what about it in a few minutes, in a few hours, in a day or two? Bob closed his eyes, trying to remember what Cavendish looked like in the camp, before he was dying. Perhaps, if he thought about it hard enough, he would— _don’t be stupid._

“Are a few hours not worth it?” Bob asked, fearing the answer. He felt, he _knew_ , that Cavendish might prefer not living through those hours of pain. _Don’t leave me alone, please._ A shiver ran down his spine and limbs. _Don’t die on me._

“Stop asking questions and come here,” Cavendish answered with that same pained smile from before, and patted the spot on the cot beside where he was sitting. “We can share the cot, even if it’s just for a few hours.” 

“Are you sure? I don’t—” Bob wanted to accept, but he just could not, _I don’t want to sound selfish. He needs it more than I do_ — _say yes!_ “You should rest, your injuries—”

“My injuries are not going to get better, we both know it.” Cavendish shrugged “Breathing is painful. So is talking and keeping my eyes open. But I cannot just will myself to die, so we might as well—” He made a vague gesture of the hand. 

Careful not to hurt his hands further, Bob sat on the cot. They were almost touching, shoulder to shoulder, and Cavendish draped the coat over the both of them, and it was far from perfect, but Bob had to admit it felt nice not to be on the floor anymore. Besides, there was something comforting about Mac’s coat, the memory of its owner or the material? 

“Thank you. Mac’s coat makes quite a good blanket,” Bob said, not keeping the fondness out of his voice.

“No wonder, since Griff made it out of a blanket,” Cavendish answered, running his fingertips along the seams. “He really outdid himself this time.”

Bob looked at the coat. He knew, of course, how it had been made, yet he could have confused it with a real, factory-made coat. For a moment, he wondered if there were more trinkets hidden inside than the shoelace. Most likely maps or papers. _No, Mac would have destroyed them a long time ago. Why do I care anyway? It’s not as if it will be useful to anyone anymore._

“He did a good job. I think we all did in fact. When I think back about it, it seems unreal that we could manage everything,” answered Bob. “And yet we did. This mad plan… we had the leaders to make it work too.” It was the truth, and if they were going to die here and now, admitting this was at least something he could do. _Since when are you going to die here? Do you think you will allow yourself to die? I don’t._

Cavendish smiled but did not answer, and Bob did not want their conversation to end like this. He wanted to clean his thoughts, focus on something else than death. He had to find something. Looking at the coat, the perfect subject came to his mind. He had a feeling he already knew the answer -had Cavendish talked about it before?- but asked nonetheless:

“Did Griff manage to escape?” 

“No,” Cavendish answered after a few seconds of silence. A veil of sadness clouded his eyes. “He was behind me and I heard the shots, I wonder if he even got out of the tunnel. If he did they probably caught him before he had a chance to run away.”

“At least that means he is safe, and alive,” Bob said. _Unlike Colin_ — _No, don’t think about that._ Bob felt his throat tighten. Why had he said that? 

“Yes, thank God,” said Cavendish. His voice was heavy with emotion, and Bob understood that feeling more than he wished he would. “I think I— I don’t know how I would have reacted had he been— I hope he— I hope he’s doing well… I wish I had properly said goodbye to him.”

_Colin, I did not even_ — Why did they have to talk about their friends, about the outside world? _Don’t_ — Bob closed his eyes and tried to block out the thought. He did not want to cry, he did not want to think about Colin. Nothing would bring Colin back, nothing would give Bob the certainty he craved. He could not, did not want to mourn him yet.

Cavendish whispered something Bob did not hear and draped an arm around his shoulders. Bob leaned into the warmth, his head resting on Cavendish’s naked shoulder. It felt nice, thought Bob before registering that his skin was actually surprisingly hot. _Is it fever? Or is it me?_ “ _Just don’t die yet, please...”_

“Oh, I don’t think I will,” Cavendish answered -and Bob thought for a second that he sounded sorry- his hand moving in soothing circles on Bob’s upper arm. “From what I remember, the bastards planned to make my death as slow and painful as possible. Is there a better way than letting me rot here?”

And indeed, was there any better solution?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops I am late again ~ I hope you enjoy this chapter nonetheless, and as always thank you so so much for your love and support <3


	30. Chapter 30

A few days passed by without much change. Bob knew that it was not yet a week because they had not been given new food or water yet. _Unless_ — _They might want to let us starve to death! No, no dark thoughts today okay? If only for a second… no dark thoughts Bob._ Dark thoughts would not give them fresh water, it would change nothing. Bob needed things to change, as much as he feared them to change. Deep down, he knew that whatever happened, their situation would not change for the better. It even seemed like there were no changes anymore between day and night, and if it was not for their sleep patterns, Bob would have sworn that only a few hours had passed since… since… since when? _Focus!_

During their last conversation, Bob and Cavendish had agreed on rationing the food and the water. Bob had to admit that he felt more in control this way, even if his voice was hoarse from thirst and his stomach cramping. _And there was I, thinking that they were underfeeding us in the Stalag_... _they were. Here it is different. Inhuman. Oh, the Gestapo and the SS are supposed to be human? Where did you find that? Oh shut up, you’re not helping._ Bob shook his head. Having conversations with himself would not help, even when his mind took pretty, familiar voices. _You are not alone. Talk to him! You will have more than enough time to talk to yourself later!_ Bob looked at Cavendish then, who was sleeping. It seemed to Bob that he had been sleeping more often than before. His wounds had weakened him. Most of the times, Cavendish’s sleep was fitful, and he woke up gasping, breathless, either shivering from a cold only he could feel or sweating. Sometimes, Bob tried his best to wake him up from his fever-induced nightmares, nudging his side with an elbow. Some other times, Bob found Cavendish’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him from a dark dream. Bob did not want to remember these dreams, but could not shake them off. They were all variations of the same dream, where Bob was alone in a brightly lit room, and he could not move his body, and someone would come -he never remembered their faces, they were always in shadows- and look at him and speak a strange language, and touch his head, pry open his mouth, and move his arms and legs and touch his chest as if he was a doll. But the most terrifying part of the dream was that Bob felt nothing. No pain, just the overwhelming feeling that something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Bob had told Cavendish about the dreams, and, much to his surprise, Cavendish had said that this bright room did not sound like such a bad place to be in. _He’s not wrong though. Any place is better than here._ Bob knew, of course, what plagued Cavendish’s dreams. _The overwhelming guilt._ The guilt with which they both lived every day. At least, in his dreams, Bob did not feel guilty anymore. He did not feel anything except that _something’s wrong_. 

The next morning -Bob had decided that it was the morning, and no one would contradict him- Bob noticed that the slow evolution of Cavendish’s wounds had taken a turn for the worse. _Something’s wrong._ Some wounds had been closing themselves with agonizing sloth, but some other were now infected. The worst of them were the cigarette burns at the corners of Cavendish’s lips, wet and red, seeping a mix of yellowish pus and blood. Those near his eyes were in a slightly better state, but not healing. With the state his face was in, Bob wondered how Cavendish even found the strength to talk anymore. Yet they did talk to each other, conversations without meanings to pass the time, to comfort themselves that, yes, they were still alive. They did not need to ask for help or thank each other anymore. It was not necessary. It had become natural, this mutual reliance on each other for almost everything. It had become the anchor to Bob’s survival. So sometimes, sitting together under the cot, watching the wall or the ground, they would talk about the past. _I never knew you, I never knew you, you do not know me, why should we talk now? Why do I want to talk now?_ This time, after they had drunk their daily share of water, Cavendish asked out of the blue:

“Hendley? Why did you enlist?” _Blythe, what are you doing here?_ Distant memories of conversations in the camp flashed before Bob’s eyes. _No, I mean, what do you do here?_ He smiled, a spontaneous smile born from the memories bubbling in his mind. _Why did I enlist?_

“To fight,” Bob lied. “This war was important, and I was concerned for Europe— for the world.” _It was the next best thing to do. Sometimes a con man has to lie low…_ “The USA was not yet involved, so I enlisted with the Eagles in 1940. I’m not regretting I did, but—,” _yes I am! No, I am not. I want to but… the war changed me, and now I care._ “I hope that I was useful in the war.”

“Every person is useful in such a war,” answered Cavendish, his hand a comforting presence against’s Bob’s back. “Even if they do not fight directly.”

“You are right.” _A pleasant lie, that._ “And you? Why did you enlist?”

A dry chuckle escaped Cavendish’s lips, and some fresh blood oozed from a burn near his mouth. 

“I did not really enlist. I had been part of Squadron 601 since a few years back.” Cavendish had a dreamy smile on his lips, frozen in the past. “I was young then, I had everything and wanted the sky too. I had not thought of the consequences. Of course, as we were Auxiliary RAF, when the war came— we— well, we became day fighters in 1940, and there was I. Shot down a few days after it all began.”

Squadron 601. This rang a bell in Bob’s memory. He could picture that squadron from what he remembered -stories back in the camp, told by those few lucky members. A squadron full of pretty, stiff upper-lipped young pilots spending their weekends flying, all pristine uniforms and silk ties, smoking, drinking whisky and flashing watches worth thousands of pounds. At the same moment, Bob had been struggling in the heart of the Great Depression. _I would have hated you then._ Worlds apart, and yet they were bound to die in the same cell now, like these differences did not matter. _Oh, how I would have hated you then! But I guess the war changed you. Changed us both._ He could not imagine truly hating Cavendish now. No, not when they had become so reliant on each other, not when Bob needed his presence to survive. _It’s funny though, how neither of us wanted to fight in the first place._ They fell silent then, waiting for sleep to take them again, and abandon them back in the cell some hours later. 

Everything there was a matter of time. Time, slowly dripping by, diluting hope and strength. Time was cruel, leaving Bob to notice all the wrong things. The signs that it left in its wake. Cavendish’s fever was not decreasing, his cheeks and brow were red and hot, and his eyes sparkled with the sick light of fever. _It’s only a matter of time._ The infection was spreading to his whole body too. Cavendish had insisted that they use water for drinking only, not for cleaning his wounds, _the fool! Well, I can’t blame him_ — _I can only be grateful_ . As a result, his feet were a decaying mess, the burns red and raw and rotting. He did not move his legs anymore, it was too painful. Bob felt powerless, and more worried with each passing hour. Sometimes, in the midst of a conversation, Cavendish’s jaw would be blocked by a spasm that would take minutes to subside. He had headaches that lasted for hours too, so much that Bob wondered how he remained sane and never complained about the pain. In his place, Bob knew he would have begged for death since long ago. _No! I will survive! I’m not afraid_ — _It’s a matter of time_ — _just time._ Bob was beginning to be afraid. _Take him quickly, for God and my sanity’s sake! Take him… or heal him. Please._

_I don’t want you to die._

_Don’t leave me alone._

Yet time was not merciful. Had it ever been? For days, Bob witnessed Cavendish’s body being shaken by excruciating spasms, his back bending at an unnatural angle and his face contorted in pain. Bob could do nothing. Nothing beside watching and trying to comfort with useless words. Most of the time, Cavendish was stuck in a feverish state, barely conscious. He would sometimes talk, sentences that Bob had a hard time deciphering. Sentences that spoke of persons and situations he did not recognize, or that were altogether too familiar. _Something’s wrong._

Some sentences, some conversations broke his heart. Bob was sitting on the floor, by the cot, watching time slowly pass and turn them into stone, when Cavendish said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I never— I never thought that I would die here. There is so much I wish I had done— ” _You won’t die here_ . _Yes you will. Yes you will, but I don’t want for you to die_ — _I don’t want to be alone. I guess you will be alone soon too. If only I believed in the afterlife_ — _I would like to find a pretty lie to tell you. Why can’t I? Why, when somebody is dying, my words blur? Where is my tongue when I need it the most?_ “Hendley?”

 _Please_ — “Yes?” Bob answered, fear gnawing at his heart.

“Have you— have you ever fallen in love?”

Bob nodded, words stuck in his throat. That smile. Those eyes. He did not register at once how strange the question had been. Out of place. He did not even know why he had nodded, but it had seemed the right answer _._ Cavendish smiled, then, as if he understood more than Bob what the meaning of this answer had been. Bob wondered for a second if Cavendish was even aware of his presence.

“So much I wish I had said. So much— I— would have done— I just hope—”

Cavendish did not finish his sentence. He closed his eyes, and Bob thought that he would die. But he kept on breathing, slowly, and he slept until the light disappeared from the tiny window of cell. He woke up as the light rose again. Cavendish was too weak to move on his own accord now. One time, while Bob was falling asleep, sitting on the floor besides the cot, he felt a weak hand grip his arm. Cavendish had his eyes closed and his skin a deathly pallor. His lips were barely moving, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“It’s only a matter of time. Be stronger than them. Don’t let them— you are innocent.”

_I want to be strong, believe me. I want to find words to tell you, if it has to be the last time I will talk to you in my life._

_Thank you._

Bob fell asleep. He dreamed of the past, a past shrouded in darkness he was not certain he had lived. A dream inside of which his voices were silent and his mind too alert to be awake. A dream of a white ceiling and the sound of heels on tiles. A dream in which he opened his eyes to fall asleep. And in the dream, voices whispering to him, _you are innocent, you are innocent, you are innocent_ — Bob felt something tug at his soul, a disembodied touch on his arm, willing him to wake up. 

_WAKE UP!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 30! Can you believe it! This one was honestly not the easiest to edit, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!


	31. Chapter 31

Bob woke up several hours later to the grey walls of the cell, only to find dead open eyes staring at him, glassy. A lifeless hand was hanging from the cot, a few inches from Bob’s arm.  _ Something tugging at my soul _ —

_ No. No... why did you have to die? Why couldn’t I be awake to _ — _ to _ — _ to do nothing at all. Let’s face it. I cannot use my hands, I cannot do anything, and I would have watched him die. He would have watched me and we would have stayed silent and we had been waiting waiting waiting for so long he was in so much pain oh God why did you take so long to _ — _ Why? _

Bob heard his own voice,  _ why why why _ — He heard it too loud in his hears,  _ no! I am alone now… _

_ All alone now… _

_ It’s much better when one is all alone. _

Bob did not know if his voice was coming from his throat or his mind. He could have been blind and deaf. Blinded by tears, deafened by the silence of death. He was alone and no one cared. No one outside the cell, no one to hear him no one would come. 

There was barely enough water left in the jug for a day. Bob did not care.

He had not eaten in a few days. Bob did not feel it anymore.

Three men,  _ friends, _ had died and he was alive. Bob screamed. He wept. His mind had shut itself in a last attempt at survival. Trying to protect the fragile threads of thoughts and memory from the waves of sadness and guilt and sadness and powerlessness that surged into his very being.

_ It’s all a matter of time.  _ The corpse would soon decay, time would pass, it always did. Bob might soon be the corpse.  _ It’s all a matter of time. _

Bob screamed until his voice and mind were raw. Mute. 

_ You’re innocent.  _

Bob got up and used the last voice he had. His hands. He lunged forward, hitting the cell’s door. Saw stars. He had no strength left. No strength to get up, yet his fists hit the door, a chaotic rhythm of bones being broken again and again against the wood. An echoing rhythm of desperation and loneliness in the corridors. He did not feel the pain from the broken bones. Oh he did feel it, but his brain was in no shape to process it anymore.

_ Be stronger than them. _

_ Be stronger than them. _

Bob passed out. His hands bled on the floor. The corpse stared at him with lifeless rotting eyes. Grey walls, white ceiling. Someone looked at their watch, one two three seven eight nine—

Bob woke up. The sun had not yet risen, no light could be seen from the cracks in the blinds. Colin was already awake, sitting at the table, stiff like a store mannequin, staring at the wall, an empty cup of tea on the table beside him. 

Before Bob could register how abnormal this was, he was on his way to the hut’s washroom. The silence in the hut was eerie. There was always some noise, even early in the morning. Someone snoring, the fire in a stove, wooden boards creaking. Even the water in the sink was silent. Bob, who usually enjoyed quiet early mornings, was feeling uncomfortable.  _ Perhaps I woke up too early?  _

He did not dare to look at his reflection in the mirror, and almost ran back to his room.  _ Something’s wrong. _

Back in his room, he saw a second cup of tea on the table, full. Was it there before? Bob felt drawn to it and took it. It was hot to the touch, as if someone had just brewed the tea. Bob drank a mouthful of tea, not that he liked it so much. Colin liked tea though, and Bob wanted to make him happy… right? But Colin had not moved. Bob put the tea cup back on the table, and went to touch Colin’s shoulder. He almost expected his hand to pass through Colin, as if he was a ghost, but what he touched was solid. Cold, but not hard like stone.  _ Something’s wrong.  _ It felt like Bob would expect a corpse to feel. He jerked backwards. 

_ What’s happening? _

Bob felt his breathing quicken, and sat on Colin’s bed. Things were going to be okay. Things were going to be okay. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps he was not awake enough yet, it was his mind playing tricks on him. Things were going to be okay. The sun would rise, there would be roll call, and everybody would be up by then. They had to. Bob remembered then, he was supposed to have a meeting with MacDonald after roll call.  _ He will make things okay.  _

_ I trust him. _

Bob did not know where this trust came from, but there was something about Mac that made it impossible not to like him, not to trust him. Bob had not known him for long, but he felt drawn to him. If not for Mac, he would probably not have been part of the X Organisation. Although he would not say it out loud, he was grateful for how quickly he had been accepted. No one had questioned him or his competence. They were great together. They could make it, he believed it. It felt nice, even if he found sometimes that these Brits were a bit crazy. But what was craziness when compared to having new friends? Colin, for example, was nothing like Bob had expected him to be at first glance. He was—  _ wait, where is Colin?  _

Colin was no longer sitting down at the table. It was as if he had never been there. The cups were still there though, a proof that Bob had not hallucinated. Unless he had? Perhaps Colin was in the hut’s washroom. 

_ Perhaps Mac knows where he is. I should ask him. _

Bob looked at his watch. There were still a few minutes before roll call, he had time to— No. He should not do that. Mac would come later. He should not seek him out. He should not—  _ It’s okay, he is not going to mind… is he?  _ Bob ran to the hut in which Roger and Mac slept. The sky was still dark -not night anymore but not day yet- and there were no searchlights coming from the towers. As he slammed the door of the hut behind him, breathless, he realized there had also been no one patrolling the compound. 

_ Something’s wrong. _

The door to Roger and Mac’s room was not locked, and Bob almost wished it to make noise when he opened it. He would have preferred to wake Roger up and have to explain the situation to him. It would be normal, and if Roger thought he was mad, then so be it. Anything but this silence. Bob walked in the room. It was dark, just like his. He tried to switch the light on. Nothing happened. Mac’s uniform was folded on the table, his cigarette packet on top, his shoes by the chair. Bob looked at the bottom bunk. It was empty and did not look like someone had slept in it since some time.  _ Well, of course, what was I thinking?  _ He looked at the top bunk. Roger was lying on top of the covers, in uniform, eyes open, staring at the ceiling above. The same empty eyes Colin had had. Mac was not there.  _ Something’s wrong. _ Bob waved his hand in front of Roger’s eyes. He did not react. Bob felt more and more afraid. Were they all dead? No, it did not make sense. Hesitantly, Bob touched Roger’s neck. It was cold -just like Colin’s shoulder had been- but soft, and after a few seconds, Bob found the pulse. A regular, steady pulse. It would have been almost soothing, to feel Roger’s heartbeat, if his flesh had not been so cold.  _ At least he is alive.  _

_ But where is Mac? _

Instinctively, he touched Mac’s uniform. It felt dusty, as if it had been laying on that table for months. He trailed his hand along the edge of the table, and even in the darkness he could see the finger marks in the dust.  _ It’s so wrong.  _ Without thinking, Bob took Roger by the shoulders and shook him with as much strength as he could. 

“Where is Mac? Wake up! What’s wrong?” 

Of course, Roger did not answer. He was boneless in Bob’s arm, like a rag doll. Taken by a sudden panic, Bob let go of Roger’s body, which fell to the floor and did not move. 

Bob ran out of the hut, through the compound. It was still dark outside, but this time there were people. Standing up, eyes open, waiting for roll call. No one seemed to notice that he was not in line, that he was  _ alive.  _ Bob ran back to his room, slamming the door behind him. He was terrified. 

_ I shouldn’t be the only one to _ —  _ I am alone. Why am I alone? I should not be alone!  _

Bob was defeated. He did not know what to do, was it a dream? It felt so real, this fear… _No. Things are going to be okay._ He went to sit at the table, and noticed a box. A wooden box covered in black paper. It was not here before, how— Bob opened the box. It was full of supplies, food, cigarettes… was Mac not supposed to give him some gift food and bribes? _Things are going to be okay._ He tentatively took a bar of chocolate from the box. It had weight to it, and seemed perfectly normal. He put it in his closet, and went back to the box. This was what he was supposed to do, no? Perhaps Mac was busy, and had just left the box there?  _ That doesn’t explain _ —  _ Mac would have known what’s wrong with everybody.  _

_ Where are you? _

_ Mac _ —

Bob took a packet of cigarettes from the box.  _ Mac likes to smoke.  _ Bob smiled, a small smile at the thought of Mac smoking.  _ Mac would not leave me alone.  _ He had to be somewhere in the camp. Bob would find him, even if he was in that strange mannequin slumber like the others. 

_ At least they are alive. Mac _ —  _ you… you are alive, right? Wait _ —

There was someone lying on the bottom bunk. Bob had a feeling he knew who this person was, but he could not pinpoint it. Too many names came to his mind, _no, it cannot be._ One second ago, the bed had been empty. Bob blinked. He felt his hands cramp, and the packet of cigarettes fell on the floor.  _ What’s happening?  _ Ignoring the sudden pain in his hands,  he got closer to the bed. There was a body lying on top of the blanket, but unlike the others, it did not look alive. The skin was taut over the bones, it looked paper thin, and was bruised and discolored. As soon as Bob understood what the  _ thing _ on the bunk bed truly was, the room became darker and darker. Bob wanted to cry for help but no sound came out of his throat. He had to get away, before— he tried to open the door. It was locked.  _ What happened?  _ It should not have been locked.  _ Why am I alone?  _ The corpse on the bed was looking at him with empty, glassy eyes. Something was very wrong. 

_ Where am I? What is this place?  _

_ What— what happened? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter... a little weird, don't you think? Just wait until next week! ;)   
> ILY, and thanks for reading!


	32. Chapter 32

Bob woke up handcuffed, sitting on a chair. _Why am I not in the cell anymore?_ There was something wrong in the air, he could feel it. A void he could not pinpoint. Preissen was sitting behind his desk, _does he ever move?_ He began talking, but Bob did not listen. He looked at his hands, both bandaged and numb. _Why? I do not remember…_

“Hendley. Perhaps we made a mistake with you—” 

_I am supposed to have only one injured hand._ _Why are the both of them bandaged then?_ _Maybe I should focus on the bastard’s words…_ Bob tried to focus but he had a splitting headache and could only notice that indeed, Preissen’s lips moved. The desk lamp was hurting his eyes, the light pulsating in tune with the blood in his ears. Bob kept his eyes fixed on Preissen’s lips then, without trying to decipher the words. _Something’s wrong. What is wrong? Let’s think. What happened? Did something happen?_ He felt a sharp pain in his skull then, white hot pain that made him see spots. _Did something happen?_ That pain again. “We are sending you back then.” _Does the pain come if I think about something else?_ “You are extremely lucky.”

_Let’s try… Colin? Colin is alive._ No pain. _Where is Colin?_ No pain. _Is he really alive? I’m afraid that’s not what Mac_ — _Ah!_ He closed his eyes. The pain had come back, ten times more powerful. 

“But know that if you ever try to do something stupid again, we won’t let you—” _The pain seems to be triggered by names? Or words? Let’s think, when was the last time I saw_ — _Ah!_ A red fog invaded Bob’s mind. Pain, pain and blood. He wanted to hide his head in his hands, but he could not, not in front of Preissen, not with the handcuffs

“But then you will notice that some things have changed. I’m afraid, that most of your friends—”

_Shut up, I cannot hear you. It’s hot, too hot in here. Too painful_ — _Where are the others?_ The pain again. Would he get accustomed to it?

Bob was feverish, weak, and either Preissen noticed that it was useless to try to talk to him or Bob had definitely lost the ability to hear him. Bob was lost in a fight inside his own mind, trying to open a door that would have unleashed the truth. He had always had a surprisingly strong survival instinct, but felt as if he was as good as dead. He let himself be led through corridors and offices, all looking the same. From a dark place to another one to another one and the light bulbs were blinding him. He wanted to pass out. _My thoughts are too painful. My legs don’t work anymore_ — _or do they? I don’t know. I don’t want to know? Why am I getting separated from the others? Why are they not with me?_

Through the pain in his head, Bob began to discern things. The air. A gust of warm summer wind on his face, for a second. _Am I outside? No, this is impossible, or is it? Can it be? Are they freeing me? Why? Why now? After all this? Has it been just a joke for them?_

He looked up. The sky was dark. Dark with only streetlamps posing as stars. It could have been the same night than the one, so long ago, when he had been brought here. He was manhandled into a car, and it all became real.

_They realized I’m innocent! I was right all along_ — _I was going to survive, and now I’m going back where everybody else is!_

The car’s door closed. Bob felt the pain being replaced by a sick bitter feeling. _I would have liked to be allowed to say goodbye to the others. To Mac and Cavendish and even Roger. To see them one last time._ _To tell them, that maybe I was honored to have met them._ _To thank them for the hope, the purpose they gave me. The way out._

_I always think of all the things I might have wanted to say to that person_ — Bob could not even remember their last conversations. 

_But I am alone._ He was alone when the car’s engine roared. Alone with a faceless driver, a soldier in the front seat and some blonde SS he knew sitting beside him. How was that one called again?

_I am alone._

_It’s much better when one is all alone_ —

The engine started roaring. _I should not be alone! Why am I alone?_

He looked at the blonde SS who seemed bored to hell and back and was checking his nails. _I have never been alone!_ The car sped up. Bob opened his mouth to talk, but no sound came out. _Why am I alone?_ Bob’s headache was not getting better, but he still tried to search in his memories, _why am I alone, where are the others?_ Blurry images in his mind, were they memories or figments of his imagination? Little by little, they started to make sense. _I don’t want anybody else to die. Even you._ Bob had finally found the answer he was searching for. _I am not innocent. I’m the only one left!_

_They are_ —

— _dead._ The pain in his head subsided at once. The turmoil in his mind calmed to the point where it became blank. An immobile sea, no wind no life to send ripples through it. _I am the only one left. I survived. I won. I was stronger, they died. For a day, for an hour, I survived. I survived, and they are dead._

_‘Am I dying?’_

_‘I— staying alive isn’t worth it.’_

_‘I never— I never thought that I would die here.’_

_You— you’re all dead._

Bob wanted to know why he had not remembered at once. Why had his mind tried to hide this knowledge from him? Why was survival so important? _Why did I have to be blind to the truth to survive?_ _Under any other circumstances_ —

_I am sorry you found out now Bob. I would have liked for you to be in deny for a little longer. Go back to sleep now. There is a world outside, and who knows who may be waiting for you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this relatively short chapter :) See you next week, thank you for reading, ILY!


	33. Chapter 33

The car journeyed through dark pine forests and grassy meadows, and for all Bob knew they could have been driving in circles. Night gave way to day, then day ended and night came again, and the landscape was the same. They were driving eastwards when the sun rose again, painting the world with all the pretty colors of war. Bob was asleep when the car stopped. It took Dietrich a handful of seconds and a few slaps to wake him up. Bob stood up and followed him, asking no questions. He felt numb. The soil’s color was familiar, a grayish sandy yellow. Bob’s legs were wobbly and many colorful sparkles danced in front of his eyes. Men spoke German all around him, too loud, it was too much, but even the sounds of his own steps and of the wind were too loud for his ears. He was led inside a building he did not recognize. Bob wanted to tell the men around him that he had no strength left to stand up. That just one more step and he would _… die._

He fell. 

He was unconscious before he hit the floor, and lucky that someone caught him before his head could crash against the corner of a wooden table.

_ Sleep, don’t worry. I am here, sleep… _

Bob slept for endless days. It was a peculiar sleep, a sleep that brought no rest. He felt people around him, coming and going, sometimes touching him. He had no strength to open his eyes. There were things poking at him, stinging, cutting, soothing. 

Sometimes voices, more distinct although he did not understand the words. Ghosts of names and sentences that had to make sense  _ somewhere else. _

“ **_No he— pupils— reaction— fever has—_ ** ”

Sometimes, Bob felt that the voices were trying to reach out to him.

“ **_—his progress—_ ** ”

Sometimes he felt that they did not care about him.

“ **_—_ ** **_we can divide by two the_ ** **_—_ ** ”

Bob did not mind the voices so much. They came from the outside, gave substance to a reality that existed outside of his mind. As long as they stayed far away from him, it was okay.

“ **_—_ ** **_are healing correctly._ ** ” 

Bob’s mind was blissfully silent. There were just the voices from the outside, and the shadows under his eyelids. His world was echoing silence and black inside and white outside. Reaching. Uncaring. Ever-moving. 

His mind and his body, revolving around each other, gravitating towards the centre. Slowly, oh so very slowly, connecting again. 

Days? 

Weeks? 

Spring? 

Summer?

_ Where am I?  _

_ What is this place? _

Slowly, Bob’s body healed. It had nothing better to do, and was not planning of awaking from its coma soon. The outside… was not yet safe? When would it become safe? Would it ever become safe? Yet, as more time passed, the same question was echoing in his mind,  _ where am I, where am I where am I _ **_—_ **

One day then, urged by the constant question, and much to his own surprise, Bob opened his eyes. Above him, a white ceiling.  _ Hello world. I guess I’m back… I am alive! Does that mean I survived? _ There was too much light in this room, it could not be the Gestapo’s headquarters, it could not be a prison .

Was he back in the camp?  _ They said they would send me back _ **_—_ **

This place… it looked exactly like the camp’s infirmary, only he did not remember what it was supposed to look like. It looked just right, but Bob’s vision was blurry. 

Blurry, yet Bob noticed details. Nurses, the noise of their heels on the tiled floor. There were other patients too, dark shadows in white sheets. 

There was a man wearing a white coat, the smell of blood and alcohol. Red hair, cropped short. Bob could not focus on his face, he was too tired, too weak for that. _Can I trust you?_ The doctor, _it must be a doctor, right?_ spoke to him in German, words slow, voice deep. He lifted Bob’s head from the pillow and made him drink from a glass. The water tasted fresh, so much that it was suspicious that water could feel so good. _Wait! Maybe it’s not a doctor! Maybe they did not_ — _No! No no!_ Bob jerked away, trying to hide beneath the white bed sheets, his head bumping painfully against the bed’s headboard. D _on’t touch me don’t come near me!_ The man took a few steps back, brows furrowed. Bob heard his own gasping breaths, too loud in his ear. He closed his eyes, trying in vain not to panic. _No, no, please_ — He felt something cold touch his arm, a sharp pain, then nothing. 

_ Sleep my dear, don’t wake up. _

The next time he opened his eyes, Bob was still lying in the bed. The sheets smelled nice. Pine trees and antiseptic.  _ Where _ — Steps. He closed his eyes as soon as he heard the sound.  _ They’re going to harm me _ — _ I’m still there _ —  _ They killed _ — Two persons walking towards him and... Bob tried to control his breathing, to slow it down,  _ don’t panic _ .  _ I’m not here. I’m asleep I’m not here… Please go away go away. _ Bob felt their presence around the bed, looking at him. Waiting for a slip in his concentration… waiting for him to wake up. 

“ _**His behavior is understandable but— said to you— his mind— through traumatic events** _ **_—_ ** ” This sounded like the doctor-not-doctor’s voice. Bob did not trust him. Not at all. He had a bad feeling about him.

“ **_—_ ** **_try to reach him._ ** ”  The second voice’s accent was nicer to Bob’s panicked ears. Not reassuring, he was too far gone for that, but less hellish. He could not recognize the accent, not American, but was it British or German?  _ Sweet and nice like honey.  _ Was this second person… someone he knew? A friend? 

“ **_—_ ** _**if he recognizes you** _ **_—_ ** ” 

“Hendley, Can you hear me?” _Wait you speak English—_ _No!_ _Are you a friend?_ _No!_ Who was this second man?

A few seconds passed before the doctor-not-doctor spoke again:

**_“—in my office —presence does not help him—_ ** ”

**_“Very well.”_ ** _ Who are you? _

**_“Call me if you need anything. Try to make him—”_** The doctor-not-doctor left then, _yes! Leave leave and never come back!_ Bob could hear the steps becoming fainter, until a door opened and closed in the distance. If only the second person left… _Go away please…_ Yet that person did not leave, and walked closer to the bed. There was the scrapping sound of a chair, somebody sitting down. _Do they believe that I’m asleep? Am I calm enough? Don’t hit me_ ** _—_** _don’t hit me please…_ _Who are you?_

“Hendley?”  _ Wait? This voice… could you talk again please?  _ “Hendley, can you hear me?”  _ I know you, do I? You cannot be real, can you?  _

Bob felt a hand lightly touch his own, a feather-like caress.  _ Is it a dream? _

“Hendley?” 

He wanted to answer.  _ Yes, I can hear you _ **_—_ ** _ but _ **_—_ ** _ but _ **_—_ ** _ I don’t want I’m afraid. You are a trick of my mind. They conjured you… _ He wanted to wake up, he wanted to be better. To trust this person, even if he had stopped talking.  _ Don’t go… _ Yet, Bob still felt the presence, a few feet away. He could hear the slow breath, he could feel the presence. Instinctively, Bob wanted to reach out. If this voice was as nice as it sounded…  _ yes it sounds nice.  _ __

“If you are awake, if you can hear me, could you open your eyes?”

Yet Bob knew that voice. If he was back in the camp… perhaps he could risk it. 

Bob opened his eyes, a blinding white light, a dark silhouette. _I know you! You_ ** _—_** _you are_ ** _—_** The light was too bright, hurting his eyes, and Bob instinctively closed them again, his heart thundering madly. His head was hurting him, he wanted to cry, to call for help but he could not take the risk. He could not speak, _not yet, not safe!_ He had to calm down, control his breathing. His whole body was trembling, and he could not say how much time passed before the pain in his head subsided. _Try again. Trust me._

_ Try again... it's safe now. _

It took a few seconds to his eyes to get accustomed to the light, which seemed to grow dimmer. There was a man sitting on a chair near the head of the bed. At first, Bob could not distinguish his features. From the right angle, he looked familiar. If he blinked, in the space between two seconds, the man seemed smaller lost substance, like a ghost. But sometimes Bob was certain he saw him. A lean man in a dark blue uniform… or a dark grey suit? Bob closed his eyes. It had to be a hallucination. He willed it to go away. Opened his eyes, blinked. Blinked again, and the man was still here. Yet something had changed. The features were more familiar,  _ I know you.  _ Bob could now see the hand resting above his own, feel the long fingers, pleasantly warm against his. 

_ Who are you? Am I… back? _

Bob blinked, and the man’s smile broadened a tiny little bit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :D I hope you liked this chapter, quite the tough one to edit too, but worth it! Part 1 is soon finished...


	34. Chapter 34

The man’s smile broadened a tiny little bit. Bob tried to smile in answer.  _ I know you.  _ If only he could remember the man’s name. If only he could focus, if only he had enough strength to keep his eyes open… If only he was certain to be safe. But his eyelids were too heavy, and he fell asleep. 

When Bob woke up again, the man was gone. The… hospital? camp infirmary? was silent. Silent, and blurry. It was as if Bob was near-sighted, until he focused long enough on a point -a window, another bed, a chair- and then the world around him became detailed again, crisp lines and textures painting the world as it should look. What Bob had at first thought to be a dark spot in a corner of his vision was a chair -the chair on which the mysterious man had sat- and on the back of the chair was draped a brown coat.  _ Mac’s coat?  _ It should not be here, it had been left in the cell. Bob did not remember leaving with the coat… truth be told, he did not remember much from his last days in the cell. Only pain, and death. Death, everywhere around him. Everyone was dead. Everyone was dead, and Bob was alive. It was strange, that they had left him the coat. Bob tried to reach for it, but he did not have the strength to lift his arm. He could only look at the coat, the broken seam at the wrist, the soft fabric. He could only look at the coat and remember how Mac would drape it around his shoulders, his hand lingering for a second too long on Bob’s shoulder or back.  _ It’s always nice to know you’re not alone, isn’t it? _

God, Bob missed Mac. He missed all of them.

It took a few days for the man to come back. Bob heard the steps first, and he opened his eyes to see a blurry silhouette approach. He focused on it, dark blue uniform, dark hair,  _ I know you.  _ The tapping of a cane on the tiled floor.  _ I know you _ — Group Captain Ramsey was friendly. He was an ally, he was his commanding officer. His presence here meant…  _ It's really you, I’m back. I’m safe. I can believe it now… I was right to hope… _

“Am I… home?” Bob’s voice had come out raspy, and those mere three words had put his parched throat on fire.

Ramsey did not answer, but he smiled again, and, with slow movements, he took a glass of water that was on the bed-table, and  bent forward so that he could support Bob’s head with his other hand. Bob flinched, a visceral reaction, and the look of sorrow in Ramsey’s eyes was heart wrenching.

“I’m sorry Hendley. If you knew how powerless I felt when I learned— How guilty I felt”  _ I **—** I guess I know. I felt the same Sir. I felt the same. _

“Sir, the— the others,” Bob did not know if he wanted to tell Ramsey about their death’s, or if he wanted to ask if they were dead. Deep down, perhaps he wanted to be proven wrong. “They ** _—_** they ** _—_** they are—” 

“Don’t worry about them,” Ramsey answered with a small, sad smile. “You’re safe now.… you, are safe. Just drink.” _Sir_ ** _—_** “Everything’s going to be okay from now on.”

Bob obeyed, tilting his head forward and he drank, drank until the glass was empty. He had not realized before, how thirsty he was.  _ More _ **_—_ ** _ I need more. Please, Sir _ **_—_ **

“I’ll give you another one as soon as possible,” Ramsey said as if he had read Bob’s thoughts, sitting down on the chair. ‘I’m afraid you will have to allow the medical staff to examine you soon. Doctor Hoffman cannot keep you sedated forever, and you seem to be healing well.”  _ I knew it was a trap! _

“…Yes Sir.”  _ I don’t want to! I don’t trust him… this doctor. Can I trust him? _

“I know how difficult this must be for you Hendley, but you are back with us now, no one can harm you anymore.” 

Bob wanted to believe him, he truly did. Ramsey would never betray him, if he told Bob no one would harm him, then no one would…  _ unless _ **_—_ ** Before Bob’s thoughts could spiral out of control, Ramsey took the coat from the back of the chair, and covered Bob with it, leaving only his head exposed. The coat smelled faintly of cold tobacco,  _ it should have smelled of blood and death, not _ — Perhaps they had washed the coat, and perhaps, with how much Mac smoked, the smell had permeated his clothes to the point that it would not wash off. Actually, the smell was nice. Comforting.  _ Sleep. _

_ Sleep my dear, don’t wake up. _

_ Sleep, you are safe. Trust me. _

Bob closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the coat warming him, enjoying the silence. The few words with Ramsey had exhausted him. Bob fell asleep a few minutes later, safe under Ramsey’s watchful gaze.

Ramsey was gone when Bob woke up, leaving Bob all alone with his thoughts and an infirmary staff he had yet to trust. Days passed slowly, Bob drifting in and out of his drug-induced sleep. The warm glow of the sun on the white walls was soothing to his eyes and mind. On some days, he could hear faint noises coming from the camp. Shouts, voices mingling to compose the music of the outside world. It was nice. He could picture himself healing there. For the first time in forever, he felt safe.

Bob wished Ramsey would visit him again, but he had yet to see him again. He was bound to come back one day or another. It was just a matter of time, and Bob had all the time in the world. 

For days then, Bob simply let his body heal, laying in the bed and resting. Resting… A word that had been so alien to him weeks ago. However, life has never been simple, and some days, these peaceful moments were ripped apart and skinned alive by nightmares and dark thoughts and doubts. And it was always the same thought that woke Bob up.

_ Am I really safe?  _

_ Is this not all in my mind? How could I know? What, who could tell me? _ Whenever his anxiety became too great, the doctor would gently sedate him. Put him back into oblivion. 

_ What if I am dead? No no no I cannot be dead. I would be in hell and this is not hell. Hell is… back there. Outside… once I’m back outside I will know I am alive. _

Bob longed to see the outside world. He was afraid too. Afraid of the sun’s too bright light and of the sound of his own voice. He was afraid of the finality of the outside world.  He had no reason to feel afraid though, since he could not yet leave the bed, much less the infirmary.  The doctor kept saying he was too weak. Bob had no choice but to believe him. A quick look at his scrawny arms and legs was enough to tell Bob that the doctor was indeed right. But that would change.  _ It has got to _ — _ I’m healing, right? My hands _ — _ my mind?  _

  
  


One day, after the doctor had spent long _too long_ minutes examining his hands, he finally took the bandages away. _Is it real? Are they_ — _No, I don’t want to look oh my God it means they’ve healed!_ Bob lifted his hands in front of his face. _No don’t! I have to_ — _I want to!_ They were scarred, fingers forever crooked and shapeless. _My hands_ — _my pretty hands_ — Pale skin marred by reddish scar tissue. Bob tried to bend them, only to find that they barely answered to his orders. 

“You will never regain full control of them,” the doctor said, “but with enough re-education and perseverance, you should be able to write again.”  _ Will I? Don’t lie to me _ . _ I do it enough to know when someone lies. It’s not nice… _

Once the doctor had left, and once Bob was certain he would not come back anytime soon, he tried to pick up the glass of water that was on his bedside table. _Come on_ — _I can_ — _I was able to carry Cavendish. I can lift a glass._ His hands shivered from the exertion of such a simple gesture _. No_ — Some water spilled onto the white sheet. Before he could drink or put the glass back in place, Bob’s muscles cramped and he let go of the glass. The sound was deafening in the silence of the Hospital. Thousands of sparkling shards flew all over the room, and a nurse ran to his side. Bob wanted to cry. It was so real, so definitive. _Why?_ His hands. _Why me? I am useless now_ — _I can’t even_ — His precious hands. Everybody would now see… and they would judge him. _They will judge._ The nurse, a perfect image of faceless professionalism, gave him a new glass of water, her hand firm holding the back of his neck. She must have sensed his distress, because the water in the glass helped him to fall asleep in a matter of minutes, shushing his mind.

Day after day, Bob tried to put the glass to his mouth again. In his head, many well-known voices were telling him to persevere. Not to give up.  _ Be stronger than them. Be stronger than them. _ How long did it take him to succeed? He preferred not to know it. With extreme sloth, he could now put on his pajama himself now. He could use the bathroom alone. He was still clumsy with a spoon, but he managed to eat. Every time he made progress, it filled him with some kind of pride.  _ I survived. Look at me now. I’m healing. Every day, I’m getting stronger. I survived. _ Yet, each time a part of his mind did not have to be fully focused on healing and surviving, it began to think again. To ask questions.

And there was a question. One that kept coming back, filling his heart his lungs his brain. One that was keeping him awake. _Colin, are you alive?_ _Are you one of those voices I hear beyond the window?_ Bob hated this question. He wanted to ask Ramsey, but something prevented him to. His mind told him Colin had to be dead. _The least pleasing something is_ — His heart told him to have faith. To hope. He had survived. All along, he had believed he would. Was Colin alive? All along, He had believed so. He had hoped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter :) Can you believe that in five chapters the first part will be finished?


	35. Chapter 35

Yes, he had survived. He was… okay.  _ Is Colin okay?  _

A few days passed, and the doctor told Bob that it would be a good idea for him to try to shower alone. To get to know his body once again, to regain some form of independence. The small washroom of the camp infirmary was actually the same than in the huts. Bare and unwelcoming, but Bob did not care once the water began flowing, warming his body. _So it does feel that way… God I had almost forgotten. It feels so good._ Bob knew he could not spend too much time in the shower, it had always been that way in the camp. Warm water was a luxury. He closed his eyes, giving in to the sensations. It was just perfect. _I don’t want this to end_ — _ever… It feels like living again._ It felt like being truly alive indeed, but things were not exactly as before. His hands, for example They did not have the right shape, the right feeling. They should have been soft, with limber fingers and obeying his every command. Bob tried to comb his right hand through his hair – it had been cut to a shorter length than what he was used to. Unfamiliar. He was clean shaven too, and it felt good. If it had not been for the scars on his body, this might have felt normal. If it had not been for a dark shadow coiled in his mind… If it had not been for the small mirror in front of the sink. A pair of eyes were looking at him, sullen, with dark purple circles under. _Is he me?_ His nose was damaged beyond repair, if not painful anymore. Bob wanted to break the mirror, get rid of the reflection. He had yet to come to terms with his new image. _I guess I’m not beautiful anymore… Will Colin recognize me?_ He closed his eyes. Breathed in, breathed out. _There are more important things. You survived, right? Why does your appearance mean so much when you saw friends die in front of your eyes… death and life… why is my nose so important… why is everything so important right now? Why can’t I just_ — He breathed in. Out. In. Out. He would not give in to panic now, when he had just begun to get him mind back together. When he seemed to have his mind whole again, finding familiar paths in his brain. He looked at his reflection again.

_ Survived. I _ — _ survived. _

_ I was right to hope. _

_ I survived. _

When Bob came back from the shower, the doctor was waiting for him. Bob still did not trust him, but he was less jumpy than before. He was making progress. After checking on him,  _ remember he is not going to harm you _ , the doctor told him that Ramsey was planning on visiting him soon. 

Soon. 

Today? 

Tomorrow? 

The doctor gone, Bob stared at the ceiling for hours. So, Ramsey wanted to see him. He had to know whether Colin was alive or not… and yet, now that Bob had the opportunity to ask, to have the answer to the question that had plagued him for the last few weeks, he was not so sure anymore. As long as he did not know, everything was possible. As long as he had no proof of Colin’s death…  _ No. You have to ask him. He has to know. But _ —

_ But what if he asks me about Mac? And Cavendish? And Roger? I cannot _ —  _ You must tell him.  _ Ramsey had the right to know, the right to mourn them. For the first time since waking up, Bob realized how horrible the whole situation must have been for Ramsey. It was obvious to everyone that, more than mutual respect between officers, Roger and Mac were pretty much Ramsey’s children, and they had been murdered. Did he know? Bob could not imagine the pain of knowing or the horror of not knowing. He himself had only survived due to sheer luck,  _ inner strength too. I survived. I have to tell him what I remember… even if it hurts the both of us.  _

_ I need to know, and so does he. _

He felt ready to talk now. He did not yet know how he would find the words, if he would the words, when his mind kept wavering between too many questions and the longing to go outside.  _ Colin… where are you?  _ For an instant, he imagined how Mac would tackle the problem. What would he say? He could almost picture it… Mac would not need to speak. With one glance and half a smile, he would say it all.  _ This smile _ — _how I wish you were here with me._

Ramsey came to visit him a few hours later. He sat on the chair by Bob’s bed, an almost familiar sight. Bob sat up, and Ramsey helped him by propping up a pillow behind his back. They exchanged meaningless words, how are you, how is the world, why does it matter?  _ Can I have news of Colin? Please?  _ Bob wanted to ask. He had been ready, a few moments ago… he had been ready, and now he could ask anymore. It seemed also that Ramsey wanted to ask him something, but he kept looking at his hands, at the floor, but not looking Bob in the eye.

Time passed. 

It always does.

“I —” Ramsey broke the silence at last, but his voice was far from the usual tone of a commanding officer.  “I am sorry Hendley. I know I should not ask you anything, and please — I do not want to force you but… if you need to speak about what happened  to you, and to the others… you were with them right?”

“I —” Well, thought Bob, at least Ramsey had had the courage to ask. Perhaps… perhaps he could answer. Yes.  “Yes. Roger you mean? And Mac and Cavendish?” He was ready to speak.

“Yes. I am sorry I should not have said anything. But I —”  _ you need to know. I am alive. They could be alive… if only they were alive.  _

Bob did not know what to say.  _ They died.  _

_ They’re dead. _

_ I saw them die.  _

_ They were so much braver than I was _ —  _ but they are dead.  _ And so, Bob told Ramsey what he could remember. He could not tell the events in chronological order though, time had had no meaning in the cell, and in his memories, everything seemed to happen at the same time, as if distorted. 

He told Ramsey about the hope. Hoping to survive, hoping the others would make it. Hoping the others had made it, that fateful night when they had heard them be taken away. Hope. He had never lost hope.

He told Ramsey about the constant abuse, and as he was speaking he was starting to wonder if certain things had truly happened, as if he was forgetting the moment the words left his mouth. 

He told Ramsey about the small cell and the guards and the smell and the food and the fear,  _ oh God the fear. _ The fear, he remembered the fear perfectly. 

Ramsey’s face was pale, and not once did he interrupt Bob. He respected the long minutes of silence, because Bob did not, could not remember some parts. Bob’ eyes were most of the time looking at the ceiling, the white ceiling that was strangely comforting now.

Lastly, Bob spoke of the dead. It was painful, and he did not know how long it took him… he felt like he was focusing on unimportant details, Mac’s coat, the stitches at the wrist of the coat, a last conversation about love. As much as he wanted to tell Ramsey how they had died, to get it out of his system, not to be the only one to know… he could not. _Hold on… I can do it. Those are only words… only words…_ How could he describe the blood slowly dripping on the floor, the stoic desperation of an order and the stench of illness? He was still seeing them so alive in his mind’s eye, he did not even know when they had died. It could have been months ago. It could have been yesterday.

Ramsey, in the meantime, was patience incarnate. Never did he ask Bob to say more than a few meager words, and sometime he finished Bob's sentences, when it became too painful to speak. When Bob had finished telling his story,  _ I woke up, and you were here Sir, _ Ramsey told him in a soft voice that they had been believed to be dead, the four of them. That no one had never learned of their fate in the camp, even after getting the names of the dead.

_ Wait. _

“The— the dead, Sir?” Bob’s voice was a horrified whisper.  _ No. _

Ramsey’s face lost all color, as if he realized that he had said something he should not have said. He was no longer looking at Bob, and seemed to be searching for his words. Bob reached out to grab his suddenly cold hand.

“Tell me, Sir— please,” Bob asked, his voice broken. “Tell me, what happened?”

“I— Hendley, I thought you knew.”  _ What should have I known? About the others? Please tell me! Tell me they are alive!  _ “When you said that you heard the others being sent away. I thought that you all would have guessed… I am sorry.”  _ No! No no no _ — _ It cannot be true!  _

_ Oh yes it is and you knew it!  _

The light in the infirmary was suddenly dimmer.

_ You knew it all along!  _

Voices from beyond, from afar, from his memories, flooded his mind. 

_ But… He has been taken away with the others! He’s not here anymore! _

He could not escape these voices.

_ I knew it… I knew it…  _

Bob was feeling a strange pressure on his temples, on his chest.

_ I hope to God  _

— _ waiting for an excuse to get rid of everybody.  _

_ No…  _

_ Why had he hoped?  _

_ Have you thought that they might not be dead? That we may be wrong and that the noises we heard were not _ — _ Why had he hoped?  _

_ I knew I along.  _

“They are dead,” Bob finally said, barely able to form coherent sentences. “Everyone. They killed them— Sir, I— I am sorry, I— I believed— ”

“Oh my child,” Ramsey answered, tightening his hand around Bob’s to comfort him, “do not apologise. It’s okay. It is normal to protect yourself under similar circumstances, to… forget or deny the most traumatic events. No one blames you. Don’t worry.”

“Sir— Is he— Colin—”  _ Why am I such an optimist? Why I am always so stupid?  _ As soon as he had asked the question, Bob knew he should not have done so.  _ I am sorry to have to say this to you, but the least pleasing something is, the most likely it is the truth. _

“I am sorry,” Ramsey answered, and he looked truly sorry, not a trace of pity or blame in his eyes. Only sorrow and sadness. “I am afraid you already know the answer.”  _ No. Are you? How can you be… sorry? I am… _

Bob did not know what to say. What to think. His mind was stunned, blank. The softest part of his soul was closed. He had locked it in a desperate attempt to save himself and was not ready to face the truth.  _ Colin _ — His eyes remained unfocused, a few tears slipping unnoticed on his cheeks.  _ Colin _ — _ I am so sorry…  _ He did not move. Ramsey remained at his side, his right arm around Bob’s waist and his left had holding Bob’s. He remained until Bob fell asleep, and remained even then, a comforting presence by his side.

_ Colin— _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you have a nice October!


	36. Chapter 36

Bob woke up to a splitting headache. For the first few hours, Bob found it easier not to think about anything, letting his eyes rest on the ceiling, willing the world away. While Bob was gazing into the void beyond the walls, the gears of his minds began asking questions that he had tried to dodge. The same word, again and again.  _ Dead.  _ But this time, there were not warm hands and no softly accented voice to calm him. Nothing but his murderous mind trying to eat itself alive. Trying to make him feel guilty, to make Ramsey, Roger, even the whole world guilty of all possible crimes. It was like a last attempt at survival, blaming them so as to keep himself off target. How many days passed that way? He could not sleep —

_ It’s your fault. Your. Fault.  _

_ You were the one who insisted to bring him along.  _

_ You should have listened to Roger!  _

_ He knew all along what was best… and now Colin is dead because of you.  _

_ Oh, how Colin must have hated you… when he realized?  _

_ When he found out you left him alone. _

Images behind his eyelids, Colin’s face, the fear, the incomprehension. 

_ Did Colin die alone?  _

_ Were they many, all in a shallow grave?  _

_ Did his body burn?  _

_ Burning, falling down in ashes because of you! Burning _ —

_ Burning _ —

_ Burning _ —  _ Dead. _

The only respite Bob found from those thoughts was during Ramsey’s next visit. His own self hatred against Ramsey’s collected compassion. And soon enough, the thoughts changed. Bob needed to talk, to get everything off his chest, but his mouth refused to speak the words he was hearing in his mind, and so, instead of blaming himself, he started to blame Roger.

“All of this is his fault! He had to play God with our lives! He—” Bob shouted, not caring in that instant for who might have heard. His dark thoughts were picking at a defenseless victim, one that was so easy to blame. There was always a stray thought trying to make him see the light — _tell me again, who followed Roger?_ But it went unheard in the midst of Bob’s grief. He needed Ramsey to tell him he was right, he needed to hear it, _perhaps not._ Perhaps he needed Ramsey to tell him it was his own fault. _You were the one who convinced Roger to let Colin go. It’s your fault_. But Ramsey never said anything of the sort. He was quiet most of the time, a sad smile on his face and a glimmer in his eyes that could have told Bob that he had been waiting for this to come, but Bob never paid attention, too far gone already. He was the ever nice listener, the wall against which Bob tried to break his fists. Strangely similar to Mac, in the way he cared without expecting anything in return. And so Bob went on speaking, words he barely registered saying, and which were forgotten the moment they left his mouth. “All of this nonsense… Roger knew we had no chance! He knew we would all die in the end.” _Oh, you’re dead then, good to know._

“Hendley, listen,” Ramsey said at last, with practiced calm. “Roger’s idea — ” 

“I know what Roger’s idea was!” Bob cut him off, his voice raw with anger, but the words did not seem to affect Ramsey, and one look into his eyes was enough for Bob’s voice to break. “I — I saw him die for it. And he created his freaking second front, for this? I —  I’m sorry Sir, but do you— Do you think it was worth the price?”

Ramsey took a moment to answer, a moment to compose his smile and glance at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”  _ So you agree with me then. Why don’t you admit it? Roger’s dead, everybody’s dead! You can say it now, there is no one left to hurt! _

As Bob did not answer, Ramsey went on, still not looking at him:

“You know Hendley, Roger and myself, we did not always see eye to eye. I must admit that I was afraid he’d put his personal revenge before the other goals. I reminded him of the stakes, and he knew them. He knew the price, and was willing to pay it.” There, Ramsey looked at him again, and Bob was not ready for the intensity behind those eyes. “We all knew it and, Hendley? I know that Colin was willing to pay the price, too.”

Bob did not find any words to answer. What Ramsey had just told him was the truth, and it resonated in the emptiness of his mind. They had all known the stakes, and no one was to blame except — except Bob could not finish that thought.  _ I should have known better. I should have listened. _

“Please Hendley, I know how difficult this is, but you must let the dead rest peacefully, and grant yourself some peace too. I’ll let you rest. I — Whenever you feel ready to come back to the camp, tell me. The doctor told me that you are now almost physically healed, and they will not agree to keep you here forever.” 

Bob nodded, a “Thank you Sir” he did not even hear. His mind was a turmoil of misplaced guilt and sadness. He wanted to shout to the sky, and yet at the same time he wanted to obey, to rest and leave the dead alone, but the ceiling prevented him from reaching, and he was the one left alone in the end.

The next night, Bob could not find sleep. Ramsey’s words were still ringing in his mind, haunting him. He wanted to be at peace. 

“Colin… Were you really willing? _ ”  _

T he ceiling did not answer. Nobody answered, no one heard the question. Bob felt a lump in his throat. He had needed to ask, to be sure. An answer would have soothed him, healed him, until he would see past the lie, because it was always another lie. Everything was just lies and lies and white lies to appease sad souls.  _ The least pleasing something is, the most likely it is the truth.  _ Mac’s words, said between four sordid walls, would forever haunt Bob. 

_ Were you willing to die Colin?  _

_ No.  _

_ I will not believe it. Not you. Yet… that should not make Roger guilty. I bet he was guilty enough in his own mind. I hope he forgives me, wherever he is. Colin… you were murdered. You were an innocent in between so many innocents. It’s not my fault it’s not yours it’s not God’s, it’s their fault.  _

Bob’s eyes were now filled with a new light. Something more determined, something people would have called alive. He had forgiven himself, on the surface, for the moment, but it was enough. It was enough to feel his heart beat again, to sit up on his bed, in the darkness of the room. His mind was trying to mend its gaping wounds, getting rid of poisonous thoughts. Yet, with clarity came a few words from a past conversation with Ramsey, leaving a dark trail behind.  The names of the dead. How many dead? How many had gotten out, how many had gotten killed? And Colin, with them. Out for a day, and now dead —  Bob felt tears fill up his eyes again. He tried his best not to cry, but to no avail.  _ Get a hold of yourself miserable wrench! He is dead, dead! You are not the only one who lost a friend in the war! Why can’t you _ — _ why can’t you _ — _ Why can’t you accept it like anyone else would _ ? Bob buried his head in his hand and cried until the morning came. When he had no more tears left to cry, his drained spirit fell asleep. 

  
  
When he awoke, Bob felt as tired and restless as before. All around him, the world was grayish. _ I awoke from this horrible dream. I wanted to open my eyes and see…  _ He was a mess. An emotional wreck. Yet something was clear to him now. No anger, no guilt, no false theories would bring Colin back. He was the architect of his own angst. Bob’s mind had tried to save him by blurring the edges of the world. His deny had kept him alive through all this. He had hoped against all odds, refused to see the facts. All of this to stay alive, and here he was alive. Alive in a hospital, wavering between dark and even darker thoughts.  Now that he was alive, his survival instincts were telling him that he was ready to go outside again. He would put a mask,  _ even if it’s not a pretty one. _ He would walk outside of this infirmary and face the sun, the wind and the other men. Because not doing it would not bring Colin back from the dead.  Worse. It would make his weeks of denial, his nights of suffering, useless.  He had survived, and that meant that now, he had to live again.  He had to live again and this thought was the most terrifying he had thought in a long time.


	37. Chapter 37

It was the very next day that Bob told the doctor that he was ready to go back to the camp. He was alright, or so he told the doctor. Did the doctor believe him? Did it matter? Probably not. Who cared if he truly was alright? Ramsey, the doctor said, would want to seem Bob first thing in the morning after his release. Go straight to his hut. 

And so Bob was left alone for one last day and one last night in the camp infirmary. _Twenty four hours before I find myself all alone in the crowd again. When one is all alone…_ Bob tried not to count these hours. He had never been good at counting hours, besides he did not need to remember that, not now, not ever. In an attempt to kill or forget time, Bob thought about Colin. He tried to conjure happy memories as hours passed, secretly hoping to be in his old room, even if the void would be too much for him. Was Colin’s s stuff still there, or if there had been a clear up? This room was filled with too many moments anyway. Bob smiled at the memories. Tea and chess, what an unlikely friendship, but they had not been so different after all. Tricksters, the both of them. _Unlikely friendships, born out of the strangest circumstances. Fits all of us._ Mac and Roger, Hilts and Ives, Danny and Willie. Cavendish and— Bob’s train of thoughts came to a stop. As much as he tried to remember, Cavendish was always in the centre of that gaggle of Brits -Security, Taylor- but who had he been particularly close to? _Have you— have you ever fallen in love?_ Why were these memories coming back now? Everyone was dead. Bob knew he would not be able to fill the void with memories only. Memories were fickle things, and yet he wanted to trust them, to remember them. But even as he tried his best, Bob could not even remember the last words he had said to Colin. He tried to picture it in his mind, that dreadful truck ride that had led to their separation, but the only vivid memory was that Colin was alive then. _His warm body, breathing, huddled against mine. Alive. My hand on his shoulder, his trust, so obvious. Oh Colin, if only everything could have been different! I wish_ — _I wish that they had given me the time to say goodbye. To say how much I came to care for you, when we were playing chess and chatting in our room. That first night, when I was so surprised to see you here_ … _you seemed so out of place, so small and innocent. I should not have been fooled by appearances. Now I know. I would have wished for no one else than you to be my bunk mate. I hope you realized it before the end Colin. Never once did I stop thinking about you_ . Never had he stopped caring. He had hoped, when his pain was at the worst. He had been faithful to their friendship, and though it would take time, Bob hoped that he was on the road to acceptance. He would have to learn to cherish memories. He would have to learn to live with a ghost somewhere in his heart. To live with the guilt, to accept it and forgive himself… he was not so sure he could do it anymore. _But you have to._

The thought startled Bob. He had to, yes, but the way the voice had said it. It was familiar, and Bob wanted to answer it out loud. He wanted to, but felt a weight on his chest, the tell-tale sign of panic. _You have to hold on,_ Bob willed himself to calm his heart, hanging on to the voice. _if not for you_ , the voice -Mac’s voice, he was sure of it- went on in his head, _then do it for us._ If his brain was desperate enough to recall Mac to comfort him, the least he could do was try to calm down, to relax. He closed his eyes. _Good. Now sleep, tomorrow is another day, and once you’ll wake up things will be alright again._

The morning came, peaceful. A window was open somewhere in the infirmary, and heard the appell outside as he was getting ready. The doctor was eyeing him from a distance, an unreadable expression on his face. When Bob was ready, he shook his hand; and Bob felt a surge of pride and relief flood his veins as he managed not to tremble. 

The doctor then went back to his office, and less than a minute later, a guard came to lead Bob back to the camp. _Why is he in a SS uniform? It’s impossible!_ Bob felt cold sweat creep up his back. _No_ — _It was supposed to be safe! Why?_ The guard did not seem to notice his distress, and he simply held the door open. Just before they left, the doctor ran back to them, and, under the confused gaze of the guard, he handed Mac’s coat to Bob. it had been neatly folded, and Bob resisted the urge to smell it. Still, feeling the fabric, holding it was oddly relaxing, and helped Bob focus on something else than his anxiety. He was safe. He had to be. 

It was the morning, everything was going to be alright. _I survived. I am safe._

Once outside of the infirmary, Bob was assailed by too many sensations for his brain to process. _There’s wind! I can feel the wind! And the sun…_ The sunlight was making him dizzy, and he squinted his eyes to adjust to the light. It was surreal. Bob was left alone in the middle of the compound as the guard departed. He stood there, motionless, simply watching, breathing. There were so many people in the compound. Walking, laughing, talking… Bob did not know where to look. Everywhere, something was happening. _Will I recognize someone?_ Some faces looked eerily familiar, in the space between two seconds. _Everything is so alive_ — The feeling was too good. _I am alive_ — _I am so alive_ — He was in the middle of so many other living people, walking past him, not caring about his presence because they had a life of their own. _They have friends and_ — _and maybe… maybe I am not alone anymore._

Bob breathed in and tried to put a smile on his face. He then walked to Ramsey hut and although he knew that his steps were hesitant as his legs remembered to walk again, he was quite glad that he did remember where it was. A watchful stooge greeted him and knocked on the door to Ramsey’s room. Bob went in. _It’s gonna be alright._

Ramsey, who had been sitting at his table, got up to greet him and shake his hand. 

“I am glad to see that you’re doing better,” he said, and even if he had a smile on his face, he was still shrouded in an air of sadness.

“I… am glad too Sir,” Bob answered. “It feels good to see so many people alive.”

Ramsey’s smile got slightly brighter and he handed Bob a cup of watery tea _. I don’t like tea. I only drank it to make Colin happy! So maybe you can drink to make the old man happy too. Besides, it will only taste like hot water. It always does._ Bob took the cup. He really did not like tea. Ramsey looked at him then, not talking and sipping his own tea. Bob felt, no he was sure, that Ramsey was trying to read through his lopsided mask of okay-ness. 

“So, Hendley,” _oh finally_. “As you might have noticed, a few things have changed.” 

Bob nodded. _Do you mean the SS?_

“Our new commanding staff is not as nice as the previous one,” Ramsey explained. _What happened to Werner, by the way? I hope the kid was not harmed…_ “But that was to be expected.”

Bob did not answer. It was to be expected, _indeed._ Ramsey had seemed quite close with the Kommandant, as close as enemies can be. _How many friends did he lose?_ Bob felt an urge to say something, anything to comfort Ramsey, but the man was unreachable. 

“Anyway,” Ramsey went on, sipping his tea, “as you might have guessed, you will have to be in another room than your previous one. I talked with Captain Hilts sooner, and he agreed to take you in his room. I hope you do not mind too much.”

 _Oh, so you’ve found yourself new little friends? Or did he agree out of pity?_ Bob’s internal voice surprised him. Ramsey was only being a good commanding officer, taking care of him. Was Bob jealous? Why had he reacted that way? Ramsey was looking at him expectantly. _Do I mind? I don’t want to be alone. I don’t know._ “No… I don’t mind.” _I really don’t know._

“Good. I thought it would be a good idea not to leave you alone. I know it’s not, and never will be the same, but It’s much better not to be alone.” 

“I suppose it is.” _It’s much better when one is all alone_ — Bob felt a sudden pain pierce his head, and instinctively closed his eyes. _No!_ _I don’t want to be alone… but they’re gone._

“Hendley… are you sure you are all right?” There was genuine concern in Ramsey’s eyes. It made Bob uneasy. He had to make believe that he was all right, even if no one really expected that of him. He needed to make believe in order to believe it himself. _Just to fool myself._

 _I don’t know._ “Yes. I need… time. I suppose.” He smiled, hoping it was a convincing one. Ramsey smiled too, unconvinced. 

They heard a knock on the door, _no, no, calm down. They never knocked, remember?_ It was indeed Hilts, just Hilts, looking as carefree as usual, the spitting image of who he had been on their first day in the camp. _Some things never change, do they?_

“I’m late. Sorry, Sir.” A true smile graced Bob’s lips for the tenth of a second. He had forgotten how Hilts naturally stressed the word ‘Sir’. _He really has not changed at all… or am I not able to see it?_ “Oh hi Hendley. Did not think I’d see you again.” _Wow. That was honest…_

“Hi,” Bob answered. “Me too, I did not think I would ever see you again.” The words had flowed naturally on his tongue, it was almost too easy to speak again, especially to someone as engaging as Hilts. _Truth be told, I thought I would never see anyone again._

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Hilts smiled.

Ramsey was looking at the two of them, thoughtful. He stood up, and said:

“Well, I think that it’s time for Captain Hilts to show you your room Hendley. Have a good day, gentlemen.”

Bob looked at Ramsey one last time and bid his goodbyes. Hilts was already a few steps in front of him, silent. He led Bob to a barrack, and opened the door of one of the few personal rooms. “I’ve got the bottom bunk, your things are in the closet.”

Bob nodded. “I’m sorry the old man asked this of you.”

“No, it’s okay, I don’t mind. I’m afraid he wants me to keep an eye on you though.” He let out a dry chuckle while saying that. Then, looking uncharacteristically serious, “Anyway, if you ever want to talk or if you’re not okay… tell me? You know you can always count on me Hendley, right? In case it’s difficult, or if you have any problems with anything or anyone, just come to me.”

“Yes, I will,” Bob answered. "Don’t worry, I’m more or less all right now.” _Believe me, please?_ Only when the room was silent did he realize how familiar Hilt’s comment -and his own answer- had been. But where did it come from? Something was not right and yet Hilts did not seem to notice. He simply sat on his bunk leaving Bob some space to take in his surroundings. The rooms were all the same, bare and impersonal. Still, it looked the epitome of luxury in comparison with his memories of the cell. Bob took the coat -he had been cradling it in his arms all along, and had just now realized how ridiculous he must have looked- and hanged it on the upper bunk’s railing. God, how he wished Mac were here.

But Mac was not here, and would never be here again. Like Colin, and many more. Bob knew he had to stop wishing for the impossible. Suddenly, he felt a need to move, to walk, in his legs and lungs. He needed to do something, to prevent himself from thinking, to prove to himself he was indeed there, to distract himself from the wishful thinking. Bob left the room with a simple “see you later”, and Hilts did not even bother to answer. _Much better to be alone_. He took a deep breath once outside -fresh air and pine trees, so familiar- and looked at the people living their lives there. It was a strange sensation, to feel like there was nothing to fear. Bob took a few seconds to try to remember how he had come here. Which choices, which people… so many lives all around him. He had hurt people in his life. He had been hurt. So many lives intertwined. Yet he was here. Outside the hut. _Alive_. Alive, what for? The others all seemed to be walking too fast. Maybe they simply did not notice him, maybe they did not care. Now that he thought about it, they were almost blurry, but he did not know if it was a trick of the light or something in his eyes.

Bob hoped that he would accept, someday, that he was lucky to be a survivor. In the company so many other people, when the world would be at peace. _After it all ends, after the bombs fall, when we will all be survivors._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting closer and closer to the end of part one, I hope you enjoyed! This chapter was quite a tough one to edit, but it's done!


	38. Chapter 38

Coming to terms with his survival was of course not easy, and Bob knew it would take a long time. Four days had passed now since he had been released into the compound, but it seemed that time did not pass the way it should. Bob could not stop thinking about the dead. No one around him seemed to care about it, or at least he never heard anyone speak openly about them.  _ It’s been some time already, not everyone needs a constant reminder of their grief, you know.  _ He had heard about a list of names, stapled in the recreation hut for everyone to see. Bob wanted to look at it, he wanted to read the names, but each time he opened the hut’s door, all his courage left him. He could have asked Hilts to bring him the list, but some instinct told him that Hilts would not appreciate to run petty errands. 

That evening, Bob asked Hilts if he had read the list, but Hilts was already asleep, or ignoring him.  _ Oh well, you’ll do it tomorrow. _

_ Or the day after. _

_ You have all the time in the world now.  _

_ All the time _ —

The next day, after roll call, Bob stood in front of the door of the recreation hut, unable to open it. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. His hand on the door handle, he just had to push— a voice. A voice coming from somewhere behind him, he’d know this voice anywhere—  _ no _ —  _ Colin _ — Bob opened his eyes and turned around. There were many people walking around, enjoying the sunny weather. 

_ It’s impossible. You’re dead _ —

Bob looked at the crowd again, but saw no familiar face. _You’re getting crazy Bob._ He should have been used to his mind playing tricks on him, but to hear Colin’s voice… one day, he would be at peace. One day. Bob finally opened the door. The recreation hut was empty save for three young Flying Officers playing a card game in a corner. It was unusual for the hut to be so empty, but perhaps with the early summer, most prisoners had better to do than read and play card games. Even Colin would have been outside, looking at the shadows of birds in the pines. Perhaps, Bob would have come with him on such a lovely day. Oh, for sure he would have preferred to smoke a cigarette while slouching against a wall, but Colin would have insisted… _why are you thinking about this now, why_ — The list was pinned on the wall, the paper too white. _Colin_ _._ Bob walked closer to it, until he was close enough to touch it. He wanted to read it with his fingers, with his skin and bones, not his eyes. _Were all of you willing to die?_ He could not, and yet he looked at the first name, and forgot it the moment after he had read it. It was a stranger’s name, a conglomerate of letters that made no sense but made also perfect sense. He read it again, and it seemed that the letters had changed position. He read the next name, and the next name, and the next, until he reached it. Colin Blythe. _Were you willing to die Colin?_

Colin Blythe.

Colin Blythe. 

It seemed to Bob that all the names read Colin Blythe, the letter changing as soon as he looked at them.  _ It’s a joke _ —  _ calm down.  _ Bob’s hands were trembling, the names on the list were blurry, but it went on in his mind, Colin, Colin, Colin. 

_ Just, calm down. _

But It was too much. Too much time, and too many senseless deaths. Too much pain, and too many lives wrecked. Too much denying, too much lying. Too much guilt,  _ not my guilt, and yet, and yet _ — And yet he felt it, the overwhelming guilt. He had survived, when so many had died. He had survived, by a twist of fate, because God was merciful, but not merciful enough to save his heart. 

He had survived.

_ Was it worth the price? _

No one would answer his question. Bob looked at his hands. The trembling had gotten worse, and they were still painful, at least in his mind.  _ Was returning here worth the price that I’ve paid? The least pleasing something is _ — _ Shut up! Mac, Shut up, please! You’re dead! SHUT UP! YOU’RE DEAD AND IT’S ROGER FAULT AND YET _ —  _ and yet you forgave him. How? Why? How can you… tell me how you did it, Mac, please.  _

_ I need to _ — 

_ I have to _ — 

_ Mac, I _ ... __

Bob wanted to rip the list off the wall but he did not trust his hands to convey strength and rage now. There was nothing he could do, not even crying. It would change nothing, it would not wash away the guilt or the memories. After several minutes spent looking into nothingness, he left the room. There was something in the back of his head urging him to move  _ on _ , to try to find something to do,  _ anything but this.  _

His feet took him back to his room -empty- and he lied down on his bed. He was exhausted, the sun was too bright through the window. It was as if someone had shot a hole through the sky and a burning bright white light was shining behind it. It was too much.  _ Sleep, just rest. _

_ Everything it going to be alright.  _

“Everything… alright.” He fell asleep in a few seconds. 

The next few days, Bob spent most of the time walking around the compound, avoiding the recreation hut as much as possible. He was learning the limits again, the hut numbers, somehow glad that it all came back to him. He also tried to notice and learn the guards’ patterns. Anything to keep his mind busy, to think about anything but the dead. The dead… did they think about him?  _ Colin… wherever you are? Mac? Do you think about me sometimes?  _ As soon as the thought left his mind, Bob saw -from the corner of his eye- blonde hair, a familiar silhouette, turning at the corner of hut 107,  _ no _ — he ran in the direction of the silhouette, but by the time he reached it, there was no one. Not a stirring of dust, not a soul.  _ Do you think about me sometimes?  _ Bob sat down against the wall of the hut.  _ It’s all in my mind isn’t it? You’re dead.  _

_ You’re all dead, and I am here. Alive. _

_ Why? _

The day passed without Bob noticing, getting up only when Hilts came to drag him to dinner. He was not hungry. He had been so hungry in the cell, and yet he barely remembered it now. Come to it, his memories were getting blurry with each passing day. It was as if being back in the camp was slowly making him forget…  _ is it what it means, to be alive? _

Soon enough, Bob found out that there was nothing to do except live. Before, he would have been busy pestering some ferret, or searching for whatever object that was absolutely necessary for the Organisation’s schemes. Now… now there did not seem to be any schemes going on. His fellow PoWs seemed to be…  _ sitting out of the war _ , as someone had said long ago. They were minding their own innocent business under the glares of the forever scowling and equally bored SS guards. Or if they were doing anything suspicious, he was kept out of it. It was safer this way, of course.  _ I am not fit for this business anymore. I wonder how many more times Hilts tried to escape since March.  _

Take a guess, Hilts had answered. He had answered with a shrug and a smug smile and Bob had not said anything back. He did not want to talk about escaping anyway. He did not want… he did not know what he wanted. To be alone. To see Colin again. 

_ I want to fall asleep and rest. _ Almost each night, he woke up in cold sweat, breathless, and it always took him some time to calm down. Yet, even calm, he always took him hours before he could fall back to sleep. Sometimes, his nightmares would wake Hilts up, but Bob would not ask for comfort. He did not want to… not anymore. He would wrap himself in Mac’s coat, hiding his face in the collar and hoping to fall back asleep quickly.  One night, Bob went to sleep with painful hands,  _ maybe I should not try too hard to write again… The doctor said it would take time. _ It took time for him to fall asleep, and though he begged his brain not to dream that night, he did as always. And as always since he had been brought back, those dreams were memories. 

The following morning, Bob woke up blissfully alone in the room.  _ It’s much better _ — Under any other circumstances, he would not have minded sharing with Hilts – the man was more than all right, independent enough, almost a shadow- but with each passing day Bob was certain he was not ready to let people into his personal space again. Of course, he understood why Ramsey had not wanted him to stay alone.  _ It’s so much better this way. It’s always better not to be alone. _

_ It’s almost normal again.  _

Hilts, however, was not the best minder one would hope for, and he admitted it openly. He was always here and there, and gone, light filtering through him, too happy being alone to take care of someone else. He was so… alive. Bob had no trouble making him believe that he was alright. Alright, of course, he was alright. He laughed at the thought, but it sounded more like a repressed sob.  _ Alright. I’m alright. _

_ Almost. _

Not even looking through the room’s window, Bob took the few toiletries he had been given upon his return and went to the washroom. He was lucky today, because it was still quite early and so no one was there. No sound, it was like walking through an empty movie set. Bob was almost convinced he would see cardboard cutouts of the other prisoners piled up in the corners of a hut. Not that he would mind, at lease cardboard people could not see him, see his guilt. Of course, Bob knew very well that his fellow PoWs did not care about his guilt. They did not see it, it was like a one way mirror, but he saw himself in their eyes, and it was painful enough. 

Perhaps, being alone was not so bad. 

But he was never alone. There was always a voice in his head, the poison tightening his heart.

— _ please.  _

Once in the washroom, Bob put his belongings on the side of the sink and opened the tap. He breathed out, glanced at his reflection. He had been given a shaving kit, a simple change of clothes, spare supplies that were not already owned.  _ Or that had been owned by a dead man, who knows? _ Facing the mirror, Bob took the razor in his hand. He turned the blade between his fingers. Time had stopped, and no one would enter the washroom. 

_ Leave me alone. _

The blade was cold against Bob’s palm.

_ Alone.  _

His reflection looked at him, dark circles under his eyes. He looked… the same. “It’s your fault,” the reflection mouthed. 

_ Be stronger. _

“Your. Fault.”

Was it worth the price? No one would enter the washroom. It was still early in the morning… half an hour before roll call.

_ It’s my fault. _

_ Everything’s my fault.  _

_ I want to open my eyes, I want to wake up from this horrible dream. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, the conclusion for part 1! Are you looking forward to next week's chapter? I sure am! Also blame this chapter's typos on my drinking, please.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a week? How is that so? It's the _Halloween Special_! I decided to post this chapter -the ending of part 1- earlier as a little horror-treat (and also because this is a shorter chapter compared to the last ten or so). The first chapter of part 2 will be on next Monday, the 2nd of November. Enjoy!

Bob woke up feeling refreshed. 

_ Strange. I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember— _

The sun had not yet risen, and no light could be seen from the cracks in the blinds. Surprisingly enough, Colin was already awake, looking fresh out of the shower. Bob washed himself up in the hut’s common washroom. _I feel like... I just did this. Oh well, it was probably a dream._ He liked it when almost nobody was up, it gave the camp an eerie feeling. Thousands of souls would soon walk the sandy compound, raising dust, voices carried away by the wind. Half an hour left before roll call, maybe a little bit less. Time enough to hide anything that needed to be hidden, time enough to scheme, to properly wake up. Lost in his thoughts, Bob shaved too quickly, and he slightly cut his neck with the razor. It was not even painful, gone in an instant. A barely visible red line on his skin. 

Back in his room, Colin offered him some tea. Bob accepted, not that he liked tea that much… but getting along with one’s bunk-mate was important. He would have never thought upon seeing the small man now serving him tea that he would have such a key role for the organisation. He would never have thought he would come to like him so much, but surprises came in all shapes and sizes. He waited a few minutes for the tea to cool down, then sipped the bland beverage, letting his thoughts wander away. Today would be a busy day. He had a meeting scheduled with MacDonald about the gift food for the Organisation, and he was also sure to expect a few requests for materials. He did not mind that, though. He had been quickly accepted as part of the organisation, and was glad he could do his part. Together, they had a chance of going home.  _ Together. _

_ Home.  _

_ Home, together. _ _   
_ Before his thoughts could lead him into the dangerous nostalgia of home, or even more dangerous fantasies, the blinds to his window were open.  Bob got up, his tea finished. He put on his uniform vest, ready for roll call. It was only a few unpleasant minutes after all. 

Nobody caused any trouble during roll call -nothing more than whispers of conversation between overly-cocky Brits- and it was indeed over in a few minutes. Back to his room, Bob yawned. Strangely enough, his cut was still bleeding. He took a handkerchief and patted it on his neck. No pain. 

_ Oh well, it’ll stop soon. _ Bob opened the window, letting in the fresh air. It had rained during the night, making the compound muddy and giving the air that fresh aftertaste, so distinctive, of water droplets filtered through the pine forest. Bob inhaled, closing his eyes. There was another smell in the air, something he could not fully describe, a smell gone as suddenly as it had come.  _ Antiseptic?  _ Bob decided not to delve too much into it and tidy up his closet to distract himself. Mac would be here anytime now. 

A light knock on the door proved him right. Mac went in, carrying a wooden box. He was all dolled up and pretty in his uniform, thought Bob, his fingers itching to spirit the blue cap away from his head.  _ I wonder how he’d react.  _ They saluted each other, and before Bob could think too much about the way his name rolled on Mac’s tongue, or about how his eyes twinkled, the box was open in front of him. 

“Now, let’s see…” Mac seemed focused on his work, probably juggling with too many thoughts and tasks. “ Biscuits, two packets, coffee, two tins, bovril, one jar, cigarettes, six packets...” 

The list went on as food items and other goods piled up on the table. There was something almost indecent to it, and Bob could not resist adding up his own findings to the pile.  _ Show-off. Look at me.  _ He was rewarded by a bright, warm smile.  _ His smile— _

Lastly, Mac fished two bars of chocolate from the box. 

“Oh yes, and Dutch chocolate. Two bars.” Mac looked at him, the ghost of his smile still on his lips. “Under any other circumstances I would have been tempted to keep them to myself.” He gave the bars to Bob then, their fingers lightly brushing. Time stopped for a second, static in Bob’s ears, and suddenly Mac reached for the side of Bob’s neck. No pain, but his fingertips came back red with fresh blood. Mac locked eyes with Bob, and something in eyes changed, like flickering lights.  _ Something’s wrong. _ Static in the air.  Bob blinked, and it was as if nothing had happened. Mac was smiling again,  _ that smile. Those eyes.  _

“That cleans up the gift food for the entire organisation.” The sound of Mac’s voice definitely brought him back to the present. “Now, the first thing we need is the new form of travel permit. The forgers have no idea what they look like and they can’t work without it.”

Bob listened, but found it difficult to concentrate. _Something's wrong. I know it._ “I’ll see what I can do.” A generic, genuine answer. Mac went on listing papers and items Bob had to acquire. All work and no fun. “—put ‘em to work Bob.” Bob smiled at the mention of his name, quickly answering. 

“Right.”

Mac picked up the box then, his lips forming  _ this smile _ again. “We’ll be great together. Good luck.” With these words he was out of the cell, leaving Bob all alone. 

_ We’ll be great together.  _ Bob shook his head. He had work to do, he would not want to disappoint Mac’s smile. _Things are going to be alright._

As he was tidying up his new hoard of goods, Bob could not keep his mind off Mac’s words.  _ Together. Under any other circumstances— _

_Together_ , but he was alone, _all alone._ It was almost like a déjà-vu, but one that tasted like copper on his tongue. __ As soon as he felt the taste, Bob saw droplets of blood falling on his white shirt.  _ All alone.  _ Quickly, too quickly, the shirt was all red. He wanted to scream, someone could come help him, Mac could not be far away—  _ Mac—  _ but he could not breathe anymore. 

Choking.

Falling.

Too much light, not enough.

He fell down.

_ Where am I? What is this place?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and -sorry not sorry- that you are confused about the situation! What happened? What will happen? Will there be answers next week? (I should stop I know)   
> Anyway, thank you for sticking that long to this story, it means a lot to me <3 We are getting into quarantine/confinement again in my country for at least a month, and I live in a very bad environment for my mental health, in the same house as people I'd rather not be with, so it's not going to be easy at all for me next month. I still hope I will be able to publish once a week, as my fics are a great source of joy for me, and knowing people read them makes it even more so. So thank you <3 And stay safe as much as you can <3


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And part 2 begins! Enjoy! <3

_I want to wake up from this horrible dream._

Bob came back to life. _I want to open my eyes_ — Slowly, oh so slowly. People had names again. The outside had a shape again, and was inhabitated by many familiar faces. He heard his internal clock’s tick anew, _When? how long?_ In the air, the stench of blood, but lingering behind, something else — _Antiseptic?_

Bob came back to life. 

His mind was a blur of words, images. Feelings. A giant puzzle he did not understand. Pieces were shifting all around, memories? How much time had passed? Some images were so vivid… he could hear his own voice. He had yet to open his eyes, but was afraid he’d lose this insight into his mind if he did. 

_I was brought back to the camp… was it all a dream?_

Nothing made sense anymore. 

_I can’t remember_ — Nothing made sense anymore. _What happened?_

He remembered a white ceiling, a window. Voices. He remembered feeling safe for a split second. _Where am I?_

Bob breathed out. He had to open his eyes, if only to know where he was. He breathed in. Only one thing was certain. _Something’s wrong._ He bottled up his fear, his confusion, and opened his eyes.

He was in the cell. _I should not be here. But_ — He was sitting on the cot, Mac’s brown coat draped over his shoulders. _Wait—_ Beside him, Cavendish was resting, eyes closed, his forehead sweaty and skin pale. _He’s alive!_

 _Wait_ _— of course he is alive. Why wouldn’t he be? Don’t be a fool Bob._ Bob noticed the bandages –probably what remained of Mac’s shirt- around Cavendish’s head. Some spots around his lips and eyes looked also badly burned. Perfect, roundish burns eating the flesh away. Cigarettes. They looked viciously painful. _It does not fit. Something’s wrong._ It did not fit with Bob’s memories, but he could not remember them. Bob felt his heart beat faster, and looked away in an effort not to give in to panic. 

His eyes met Mac’s. Mac, leaning against the door, his eyes expressionless for a split second before they soften to their usual hue. Strange, how Bob had not noticed him before. He felt his heart constrict in his chest for no logical reason. In the space between two seconds, Bob saw Mac’s body covered in purple bruises, dark blood. Bob had this sudden impulse to touch Mac, _feel that he is alive._ In the blink of an eye, everything was back to normal. Mac smiled. 

“Welcome back.” _That smile._

His voice. Bob felt tears in his eyes, _You_ — Mac detached himself from the wall and got closer to him. “Are you alright?” he asked. 

“I am sorry,” Bob answered, not knowing what else to say. He could not shake this feeling of wrongness off “I am sorry _—”_

“Shh… don’t be sorry.” Mac knelt down and embraced Bob. He was so warm, Bob held onto him for dear life. “It’s not your fault, none of this is your fault. It’s okay. I am here,” 

“You won’t leave me, right?” Bob asked, his face hidden against Mac’s neck, his voice breaking.

“Don’t worry,” Mac answer, and Bob felt him chuckle more than he heard it. “Even if I wanted to leave I would not be able to.”

 _Of course. It’s not as if we can just walk out of this place. I am an idiot._ Despite himself, Bob smiled.

“How long?” Bob asked, wanting to change the subject before he could embarrass himself even more. _How long has it been since_ _— since the last time we saw each other?_

“It’s difficult to keep track of time here,” Mac answered, breaking the embrace. There was a glimpse of sadness in his eyes, something Bob did not want to focus on. “A week, I guess.”

 _It felt like… weeks. An eternity._ Bob did not know what to say. He knew, deep inside, that there was nothing to say, but he felt like he owed an explanation, an apology of some sort. Yet, Mac simply smiled, and said:

“What— what happened?” Bob asked. The images _memories_ were back behind his eyelids, in the back of his mind, but hidden behind a veil. _Something happened._ Something horrible. _Mac has to know. He knows everything._

“Not much,” Mac shrugged. _But you_ — “Nothing much changes here. Don’t worry.”

“I—” Bob closed his eyes, trying to get through this veil. To remember. To reach those images. “I remember— horrible things. You—”

Mac smiled, a perfect-somehow-fake smile, and his voice was so soft, his fingers brushing against Bob’s cheek. “Can you tell me?”

“No.” Bob shook his head. Tears fell from his eyes. _I want to remember._ “I remembered… I think I did, but then I don’t remember anything.”

“It’s okay,” Mac answered, and how could Bob have thought his smile was not genuine? “You were in a coma. Your mind must have played tricks on you. If they’re memories, then you’ll remember them one day. In due time.” 

_My mind._ It could make sense. _Perhaps, yes. It’s convenient._

“I had begun to lose hope,” Mac went on. “I really thought we would lose you, but you’re alright. Things are going to be alright now. Your fever has decreased, and, here, let me.” Mac then tentatively took Bob’s injured hand in his own, and removed the makeshift bandage. “It’s getting better. I am sorry I cannot help more.” Mac bandaged the hand again. Bob felt no pain.

“I— I am sorry. Thank you.”

Mac smiled again, as if he knew better than Bob what stood behind the apology. “You have nothing to be sorry for. What they did… We would all have reacted like you in a similar situation. But things are going to be alright now.”

 _You keep repeating this. Thank you for the lie… but I don’t think so. You don’t believe it yourself? Something happened._ Bob did not want to add anything to the conversation. Mac would never consciously lie to him. Had a week really passed? _It’s easier to believe him._

_You want to believe him._

“Do you need something in particular? Something to drink, food, anything?” Mac asked, looking suddenly like if the exhaustion of the last few weeks has finally caught up with him. 

_I want to believe him. Under any other circumstances_ — 

Bob shook his head. He did not feel like swallowing anything right now. His throat was parched, but he just could not. Even the thought of drinking made him nauseous.

“If you do not need me anymore…” Mac sat down against the wall “I think I’ll get some rest. It’s been a long watch.” He closed his eyes, and a few seconds later, Bob heard his breathing, even and slow, as he slept. Bob looked again around the cell. He was alone… _kinda._ Both his companions were sleeping, and Roger was — _is he even still alive? A week is a long time to stay alive._

Bob yawned, but got up from the cot nonetheless. It was time to truly come back to life. He walked a few steps, his limbs stiff from having stayed immobile. He tried to move his fingers, the bandage restraining his movements. Still no pain. He took off the coat and draped it over Mac. _He’s gonna catch a cold, staying half-naked like that._ This being done, Bob was left with nothing to busy himself except listen to his mind and count time, anything but try to remember. He had chosen to believe Mac. _I’ll remember in due time, if these are even memories._ He thought about waking Cavendish up, but it was perhaps not the smartest choice. _Let him rest. He’s been through enough._

_Let them rest in peace._

Bob then resumed his silent watch routine. How long had it been since he had not leaned against the door, listening to the faint noises outside? He promised himself to wake his cell-mates up when he would hear guards coming. For the moment, he simply enjoyed -if such a word could be used here- the silence and relative safety he was feeling. _Peace._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the beginning of the second part, I hope you are confused, I hope you got some answers, and I hope you don't hate me too much! As always, thank you so very much for reading and for your support <3


	41. Chapter 41

Peace. It had become such a foreign concept. _I could have sat out of the war._ Yes, he could have sat out the war, but that did not make it peace. Bob had lived the majority of his life in peace. In relative peace… he had never thought about it before the war. He had taken peace for granted, and war for an opportunity. _Perhaps I’ve deserved this all along._ Bob shook his head. No one deserved a fate such as theirs, and he knew in a deep part of his mind that these thoughts were poisonous. Brought by boredom and fear, _and guilt._ Bob was strangely calm though, but he still walked on eggshells around himself. _Stop being a fool…_ As long as he kept hoping, it would be all right. _Of course._ Bob shook his head, trying to get rid of his negative thoughts. _Better think about something else._ He could do it with optimism, or at least he could try. 

Bob then tried to conjure a memory, anything to distract himself, but these images that had been so vivid a few moments ago, when he had woken up were now covered by a foggy skin, out of his reach. _I’ll remember them in due time. I gotta believe it. I can remember something else. Something peaceful._ Bob closed his eyes, and leaned against the wall. He breathed in, trying to empty his mind of thoughts, trying to concentrate, on his breathing. A few minutes later, peace found him. He started humming a tune he had heard long ago, on the radio. He could not remember the title, but he did not care, memories of the man’s slow voice in a language he did not understand and the few piano notes were enough for now. It would have been a nice song to dance a languid waltz to. _I cannot remember where I heard this. It must have been so long ago._

_It’s strange._

_How memories come and go._

Bob had often found himself remembering bits of his pre-war life back in the camp, snapshots of no interest, without sound or without colors. He missed his old life so much… he missed the hardships too, his memory blurry enough to give him a pretty picture of even the grimmest times. Even life back in the camp now seemed dream-like, surreal and comfy now. _Peace. Could that have been peace?_

The bare light bulbs were warmer in Bob’s memories, Colin’s tea tasted more like sugar than wretched leaves. Memories were indeed strange little things. Some details were so clear, like how the sun would red to their cheeks, and how in the morning, sometimes, Bob would watch the others through his window…

Willie was doing his and Danny’s laundry in one of the shared sinks. The sun was not yet hot, the camp still calm. Last summer, probably. Willie’s hands were red and raw from the digging, or was it the cold water, and he looked at Danny, Danny who was nearby and was hanging the clothes to dry. Danny smiled at him, and said something that was lost in the distance of the memory. Something that made Willie laugh. They both waved at someone Bob could not see yet— Another afternoon. A few notes of guitar to accompany him, and Willie’s voice was clear. Some stopped to listen to them, a guard, a group of prisoners walking aimlessly. What was the name of the musician again? Lost in the distance, in the shades. An instant, when Bob had listened to them. But he could not remember the song. Somewhere else, teams were made and the prisoners would play soccer or rugby. Summer still. Willie and Danny and Sedgwick and Haynes, and not enough clothes on and Bob did not know what game they were playing, were there even rules? No rules in love and war… it was too easy to forget the war for an instant of summer. And although the camp was not home and would never be, life found its way. 

They were in April, April or May 1944 now.  
Poland’s frosts would have ended by now, and birds would surely sing in the woods surrounding the camp. One afternoon, Colin would point them out to Bob – during that afternoon, there would be no work to do. Bob would be relaxing outside– he could hear Colin’s voice. He would smile, listen to his friend and there was some kind of happiness to be found there. _We are walking past hut 110. I can see them all, the Old Man is at his window, Eric is outside, one foot propped up against the wall, they are talking. Hilts smiling to something only he sees. Everyone’s here. Where is Mac? He has said something to Bob this morning, something important_ — _“Do you see the magpie Hendley?” Yes I see it Colin… It flies from one tree to another, it flies free, I’d like to take his place, even for a minute… Would you mind another joyride Colin? I promise I will not crash the plane. We will fly higher than the migrating flocks, follow them to Sweden_ — _home, home, we’ll follow them ‘til we find peace. Peace. Home. It smells like late spring._ Except memories have no smell. 

Bob opened his eyes again, and no birds could be heard. Grey walls. Bars. Stale air, every lungful smelling of waste, sweat and blood. And fear. Fear smelled stronger than anything else here. Everything was silent still. 

Perhaps, in a twisted way, this was true peace. The cell, immobile, out of time. _If the door never opened again, if we were to stay like this_ — _could this be peace? Would the fear subside?_

If they were to remain forever this way, there would be no need for fear, no need for war or peace or guilt or memories. They could be sleeping, statues, dead, alive, no need to feel anything anymore. _Is this how I was, when I was unconscious? At peace?_ Bob could not shake the feeling that something was wrong with this equation. He could not remember, and felt like he should, and yet at the same time in the midst of this void something was certain. He had not felt at peace. _Pain. Fear. So much… guilt. Why can’t I escape from it?_ Bob was still afraid, and before he could give in to the fear, he looked at Mac. _Help me._ Mac was still sleeping though, and Bob looked at the slow rise and fall of his chest, barely perceptible. It was comforting, and slowly, the fear subsided into a numb feeling at the back of his mind. Bob then took a few seconds to look at Mac’s features. He had all the time in the world for the moment. He wanted to smooth out the dark bags under Mac’s eyes, to clean the dried blood on his lips, _what can he be dreaming of? The same thing as you idiot, peace. Comfort._ Bob smiled. Mac was a creature of peace if Bob had ever met one, and Bob found himself wondering how Mac had found himself in this war, why, why did he fight, what were his reasons, and no, Bob could just not picture him at war. He was too peaceful for that. _That's what you thought about Colin too. And you were wrong. Mac's a better soldier than you are._

_Look at him. He has not given in._

_He has taken care of you all._ Even in the camp, Mac barely got enough rest, and back in the camp Bob had laughed about it, perhaps. He did not remember well. He remembered Mac asleep, his head on Roger’s shoulder, he remembered watching him run around day after day, always something on his mind, and so little time for peace. 

Bob felt so grateful for everything Mac had done to help them, back then, and now. _Who could refuse a pretty blond nurse?_ Bob smiled at the thought, it was funny how he had naturally started to think about Mac as a nurse since they had been thrown in that cell. Come to think of it, Mac would have made a good doctor, in another life. _He has a thing, caring for people. Makes you feel at ease too. And he’d never hurt anyone… we did not deserve him._ Bob wondered what Mac’s secret was, how he could be so genuinely kind and caring… _Well, I’m not that bad at caring either. As long as one’s my friend._ Truth be told, Bob had few friends, whereas Mac had many in the camp, or seemed to have many… Had Mac considered Bob his friend back then? Could Bob consider Mac his friend now? Their previous conversation came back to his mind. He had been out for about a week, and Mac had taken care of him, he had been worrying for him, trying to help him. And when Bob had woken up, Mac had been there for him. He had comforted him, a gentle touch to his soul. _Maybe Mac had been nice to you because he had no one else to care for… Nonsense._ Firstly, he was not alone, Cavendish was alive, secondly, Mac had always been nice to Bob. _He cares about me._ Truth be told, Bob had never thought of Mac as _my friend_ before the escape. He had liked him, but had not tried to look deeper into it. He had not needed to, and Mac has asked nothing of him. _Something else I took for granted_ — _and yet he still cares for me._ Bob’s heart was filled by a sudden guilt. His friendships all seemed to go wrong. _Colin_ — _No. I mustn’t think about this now. I_ — _I am not the only one._ He could not remember when, but he was certain he had talked about friendship with Cavendish, _he understands what it is, to have left your friends behind._

_He understands your guilt._

_Not like Roger and Mac…_ even here, even now, they had each other. And although Bob could not fathom why, _love, it’s love,_ or how, _you wish you’d understand,_ Mac could have forgiven Roger for putting him in this situation, they did not seem to harbor hard feelings. Or if they did, their hid it well. _Probably afraid to lose each other_. Bob wondered how long it had been since Roger and Mac had last seen each other. Had Roger been absent since— How long had it been since Bob had last seen him? A shiver ran down Bob’s spine. It was highly possible that the Gestapo had grown tired of Roger, and after having dragged Bob’s unresponsive body back to the cell, Preissen would have shot a bullet through Roger’s head. Bob remembered a bathtub, in that dreadful chamber. Roger had been alive then… if he remembered correctly. _His head falling one last time in the tub, water spilling out of the tub, no more movement, they are dragging him away…_ Maybe Mac had guessed about his friend’s death… he would have read it in the guard’s eyes, he would have smelled it in the air. He had a way of knowing these things. Bob wondered if, once Mac had woken up, it would be a good idea to tell him what he had witnessed back in the room. _It will only hurt him, you don’t want to– he deserves to know. But I don’t even remember… did it happen?_ For once, Bob hoped Roger was alive and well. Oh, how Mac’s face would light up if he woke up and saw Roger there, in the cell, with him… Suddenly, Bob hear footsteps approaching. Cold sweat down his neck. They stopped in front of the cell, and he did not find the time to wake neither Mac nor Cavendish up before two guards opened the door and went in. _Bringing food maybe? It does not seem so._

They were in fact not bringing something but someone inside. _Wait!_ There were two other guards behind them, who were each holding Roger by an arm. He looked like he was about to pass out, his face white and his feet bare, but he was conscious. _He’s alive! I_ —

An image flashed before Bob’s eyes, Roger, his face white and blue. Strangled. Someone shouting. _No! I saw you die? But you’re alive_ — The guards threw Roger in the cell and left, closing the door behind them. _You’re back_ — _I_ — _Mac will be happy. I_ —

_I’m glad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you are staying safe :) thank you for reading!


	42. Chapter 42

So, Roger was alive.  _ The four of us. Alive.  _ Bob did not know what to do. Time had stopped for a few seconds. 

Roger was leaning against the wall, his hands gripping it, knuckles white, legs shaking from the effort. His eyes darted from Bob to Mac, to Cavendish, to Bob again. Bob locked eyes with him, and Roger held his gaze. Roger did not speak yet, mouth half open, as if to catch his breath. Was he waiting for Bob to say something first?  _ It’s okay, we’re both alive.  _ Something slowly changed in Roger’s eyes, a light going out or a veil graying them. He was inexpressive, beads of sweat clinging to his skin and purple bags under his eyes. Had he not been standing up, Bob would have thought he was dying.

_ You can’t die. Mac needs you. You can’t leave him alone.  _

“Mac —  How — How is he ?” Roger finally asked, as if he had heard Bob’s thoughts. His voice was as Bob had remembered it, albeit weaker.

“I don’t know,” he answered. Something akin to shock, or panic, fluttered in Roger’s eyes. Too late, Bob understood how badly Roger could have misunderstood his words. “I — I mean — He is fine I guess, he— he fell asleep earlier. He was exhausted, nothing more.” 

Roger closed his eyes then, breathing out as if he was relieved. He probably was.  _ Don’t worry, he’s alive _ , Bob wanted to add, but he decided against it.  _ I think you’ve said enough Bob _ . If Mac was to die before Roger... Somewhere, deep in a corner of his mind, Bob saw Roger break. It was an image so vivid, emotions Bob had never imagined on Roger’s face.  _ Something’s wrong _ — It was too clear, and yet it could not be a memory.  _ What happened? _

“All right,” answered Roger without opening his eyes, and the image was gone as quickly as it had appeared from Bob’s mind. Bob thought that Roger would add something, _show you really care_ , or would ask another question. But no. Slowly, Roger’s legs gave way under him, as if he had no more reason to force himself up. He let himself fall against the wall, ending up half sitting half lying, his left leg extended in front of him, the other leg folded under him. Only then did Bob notice that Roger’s left ankle was swollen and bruised, twisted in an unnatural position. _What did they do to you?_ Bob looked at Roger more closely, paying attention to all the details he would have otherwise missed. His breathing came out shallow, his neck was bruised, his arms were limp at his side… The picture did not match. Bob felt something rise within him. Bottled-up incomprehension and anger and fear threatened to spill out. Roger could not be this boneless clay body. Bob wanted to shake him. To force his eyes open, to force him up. He had to do something, anything to break this moment before it became too much. Before it became so abnormal, so peaceful that it would terrifying.

“Roger.” Bob did not know what to add. He had spoken on impulse, His tone had been authoritative, uncharacteristic. _What do you want to ask him? Leave him in peace! What do you want to say? I’m glad you’re alive, I bet you are, stop lying. Are you okay? As if. As if Bob. Ask him if he needs something, oh but that’s not your role. You don’t even want to help him._ Roger opened his eyes, and looked at Bob, his lips forming a weak smile. _Wake Mac up. It’s his job to take care of Roger. Wake him now._ Bob let his tongue speak without thinking again. “Is there something I can do for you?” _Why won’t you let him die?_

“Hendley.” Roger tried to prop himself up, using his arms as leverage, but he did not manage to stand, and gave up with a sigh.“You — you seem fine. Is Dennis— ” 

Bob nodded.  _ Am I fine?  _ “We are okay,” he finally answered.  _ Cavendish has yet to wake up, is he okay?  _ He was going to be okay. As strange as it sounded to his own ears, Bob was not afraid for Cavendish at the moment. It was not that he did not care, but he just…  _ Cavendish is sturdier than he looks. He’s gonna be okay.  _ “We are as fine as can be.”

Roger smiled, that same weak half-smile from before. “I am glad.” _Are you? Do you even care?_ “How long has it been?” The question took Bob aback, and chased away his previous thoughts. _How long have I been_ — Mac’s answer came to Bob’s mind at once, and his voice did not have its natural tone as he answered:

“About seven days.” Almost Mac’s voice.

Roger nodded. Bob went on, “I’m not sure. I was out cold myself for some time. I only woke up today.” That sounded wrong. Roger nodded again, and Bob realized what was so wrong. “Wait, how long has it been since what?”

Roger looked at Bob, confused. He closed his eyes for a split second  _ Oh come on!  _ then said:

“Since what? Well, since they took me away from here, or maybe since the last time we saw each other. I remember seeing you, I guess — You were in the room, before — ” 

That, Bob remembered. His memory was blurry still, but yes, he remembered that day all too well, so much he could almost see it in third person view. This memory, he could trust. Roger had been alive back then,  _ so why did I think you were dead?  _ Bob sighed. He would probably never understand, and he had more pressing matters to attend to.  _ Focus on the living.  _ “So, they didn’t bring you back here since then?” 

“No. They kept me in isolation somewhere else, not far away from here, I don’t know — I don’t know. ” Roger ran a hand through his untidy hair, his fingers trembling. “Sometimes they’d take me out again, oh well, that’s not very interesting. So you say that it has been a week since you were there too?”

“Yes, about a week,” Bob nodded. It had not felt like a week… more like an entire life, or two. An instant.  _ A week is a long time to stay alive. _

“It felt like — a lifetime , to be honest with you,” Roger added. It was uncharacteristic of him, to open up like this, but Bob did not have it in him to stop him. He was almost drawn to Roger’s story.  _ Make me remember what I did not live.  _ “I thought I’d go mad. I began seeing and hearing strange things — I could not sleep, but could not stay awake either. I — ” A shiver ran down Bob’s spine. He could only imagine how long those few days must have been for Roger, if he had been all alone, with no means of knowing anything… with no human contact save for their torturers… No way of knowing who was alive or dead.  _ The fear. _

_ The guilt.  _

_ Consider yourself lucky then Bob… you’re not alone anymore. _ Still, he was curious. He wanted to know more, yet at the same time he understood that Roger would probably not talk about it anymore, now that he had gotten some of the pain out of his chest. Just like he had not stopped him from talking, Bob would not press on. After all, Roger’s injuries were quite obvious, and the invisible ones… Bob trusted Mac to see them, and know how to heal them. It was none of his business. 

For a few minutes,  _ one hour or two maybe _ , they both remained silent. Bob thought about nothing, dozing off, waking up, dozing off again, looking at Mac,  _ so peaceful, wake up please _ . Roger, on the other hand, had his eyes open, as if in a trance, looking through the opposite wall. He did not move. From time to time, Bob cast him a worried glance, but nothing changed.  _ I wonder what he sees. If he still back there in his mind.  _ Mac slightly moved in his sleep, a shiver running through his body. Roger did not react, and Bob wondered if he had even seen anything. Surely, if he had seen it, he would have wanted to reach out.  _ Readjust the coat, or something.  _ That was what Bob wanted to do at the moment, but he could not do it, not with Roger in the room.  _ Guess what? He probably wants to be closer to Mac. If he could walk. If they were alone.  _ Under any other circumstances, he would asked if Roger needed help,  _ lean on me, it’s only a few steps.  _ It was unthinkable here though,  _ we’re both too proud.  _ And this pride was something Bob would respect, for he too, was perhaps too proud. Their tormentors had taken enough from them already.  _ You know what? Perhaps he would have accepted your help. Better than to be alone.  _

Finally, the silence surrounding them and his thoughts about loneliness lulled Bob into a deep sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was not so difficult to edit for once, which is a nice change around here. See you next week, ILY <3


	43. Chapter 43

Bob slept a dreamless sleep, and, a few hours later, some movement or noise tore away the fabric of his sleep. He did not open his eyes right away, trying to go back to sleep. He did not feel the tell-tale panice in his heart that screamed ‘the SS are coming’. _That’s not very prudent of you. Wake up._ Had it been something dangerous, one of his cell-mates would have woken him up already. Something would have been wrong with the air. he would have felt it.. _You are too calm._ Perhaps, this strange feeling of calm Bob was feeling was because they were the four of them together in the cell. _How long had it been since the last time we were here together?_ Granted, it did not make their situation better that they were reunited, but somehow, it made Bob feel relatively safe. Whatever this noise had been then — 

_There it is again!_ It sounded like strangled laughter. _That’s not natural here._

_Wake up._

Bob opened his eyes, trying to find the source of the noise. He noticed Mac’s coat, lying forgotten on the floor, a few feet away from where Bob was sitting. _Mac must have made some noise that awoke me. No big deal. No. What you heard was definitely someone laughing. That’s not some random noise._ Still, Bob looked around, and finally saw Mac, kneeling on the floor, his arms around Roger’s shoulders, locking him in an awkward embrace, their foreheads touching. It seemed that neither of them had noticed that Bob was awake. _Better like this._ Bob did not want to break their moment. They deserved as much privacy as the cell could allow for their reunion. _I am not jealous._ But still, Bob wanted to watch them, to feel some of their happiness by proxy, even if it was not meant for him. 

“You’re really back.” Bob had not seen Mac’s eyes sparkle like this since a long time. Maybe since the camp… _At the very beginning… when Roger came back, when we were all sitting together, scheming, in the recreation hut._ Maybe in a distant memory he could not place, _under any other circumstances_ — “I am sorry I— I tried my best not to lose hope, but I— I thought you— I tried to convince myself you were alive, just like the last time.” Mac’s voice was muffled, and his words were so different from what Bob had heard him say before… it did not match. Mac could not have lost hope. _Well, he has been more realistic about the shit we’re in than you the whole time. He must have lost hope since the beginning, but he’s not showing it, which is_ —

Bob’s musings were interrupted by Roger’s voice, which sounded more alive than it had a few hours earlier. 

“I— I am here Mac.” _How can he sound so pained and yet happy?_ “ We should never lose hope. We’ll always find each other.”

“Yes. We’re together again. Everything is going to be okay now.” Mac started to disentangle himself from Roger. “Now, I should check your injuries.”

Roger shook his head, his hand gripping Mac’s forearm to keep him close. “I am okay. I— It can wait. Stay?”

“We should at least do something about your ankle Roger. You cannot leave it like this.” Mac’s voice had taken a serious tone, but his eyes still had that soft, caring glow that Bob wanted to see directed at him so badly. 

Roger did not answer, wrapping his arms around Mac’s waist and hiding his face in the crook of Mac’s neck. Mac seemed to hesitate for half a second, then ran his hand through Roger’s hair in a soothing gesture. 

“Please, I can see you are not well,” Mac whispered, his voice so low and soft Bob almost did not hear him. “It’s gonna be okay, I promise.” Mac then stood up, and, when he saw Bob looking at him, he plastered a lopsided, almost apologetic smile on his face: “Oh you’re awake! How are you feeling?” 

_Sorry for eavesdropping._ “I feel better, thank you,” Bob answered. Mac’s smile brightened a little bit. _It’s unnatural to smile so brightly so suddenly. You’re going to bring misfortune upon us._

“Good,” answered Mac who then walked to the cot, checking on Cavendish who was still sleeping, draping the coat over him. Bob yawned. It was strange, to see the four of them reunited like this in the cell. It was almost too calm, no noise outside, no one dying… It was almost too easy to pretend that things were actually okay, that Roger was not acting all strange and that Mac was not hiding his worry behind his smiles.

Mac took a sip of water from the jug, then said: “Would you mind lending me a hand Bob? I am going to try to do something for Roger’s injury, and I might need help.” Roger looked annoyed for one second, _or is he afraid?_ and opened his mouth to protest, but Mac would have none of it. “Please Roger, you cannot even stand up on your own.”

Roger finally nodded, still silent. _I wonder if he’s reluctant because of me… I should fall back asleep and leave them alone._ But it was too late to go back to sleep now, especially not since Mac had asked for his help. Getting up, Bob asked, “What do you need me to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mac answered. “Once I get a look at the injury, then I’ll tell you.”

Roger sighed. _Mac has won it seems._ Mac knelt on the floor and examined Roger’s ankle. His fingers were moving slowly, obviously he was trying to hurt Roger as little as possible. The damage to Roger’s ankle was painful to see. The swelling seemed to have worsened, and with the way the ankle was bent, there was no way it would correctly heal. Not with the means at hand. _What did they do to you?_ Of course, Bob would never ask. And Roger would probably never had answered anyway… Mac did not ask that particular question either. He locked eyes with Roger, and after a few long seconds had silently stretched between them, he asked:

“How long?”

Roger closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath before opening them again. “I don’t know. A few days at least. They crushed it. There,” with his hand, Roger pointed two darker bruises on each side of his ankle. “And there. Made me stand and walk on it too— ” 

“Thank you,” Mac touched Roger’s cheek with the back of his hand. A deep sadness had settled into his eyes. Roger leaned into the touch.

“I need to set and immobilize the break. If only I had the material to make a splint…” Mac looked around the room, searching for a non-existent solution. _Sedgwick’s never here when we need him. I wonder what became of him…_ Finally, Mac walked to the cot, and shook Cavendish’s shoulder. “Sorry to wake you up, but I need to see something…”

Cavendish blinked the sleep away from his eyes. he looked in a better state than before, as if waking up had brought him back to life. His skin had more colors, _glad to see you’re alive._ Cavendish stood up, and noticed Roger’s presence at once. “Welcome back Sir.” 

Roger smiled, and answered “thanks.” Cavendish then looked at Mac, who was busy lifting the dirty mattress, looking for something. As if he had heard the unvoiced question, Mac said:

“I’m wondering if I can take some wood from this… long story short, Roger has a broken ankle and I need to set it.”

Cavendish nodded, looking grim, and held the mattress so Mac could have a better view of the crude slatted base, asking: “You think you could take a slat off?”

“I worry the bed will not hold if I do so,” answered Mac. 

Cavendish shrugged. “I suppose it’s a risk. You’re only taking one off?”

“Yes,” saying that, Mac gave a slat an experimental tug. The wood creaked. 

“Are you sure it’s necessary? They’ll take it off as soon as—” Roger could not finish his sentence, cut by Mac who, for once, had an authoritative tone of voice. 

“Yes. Trust me, I’m no doctor. They may take it off, but it will have helped at least a little bit. And we all deserve a chance at getting better.” 

“I trust you,” answered Roger. _Then why were you so reluctant earlier? What’s wrong with you? Or did Mac always had the power to make you change your mind?_

Mac tugged at the slat again, harder, and this time the piece of wood broke. It was about one foot long, _most logically full of splinters_ , but Mac seemed satisfied.

“They won’t be happy when they’ll realise what you did,” Cavendish said, putting the mattress back in place.

“The contrary would have surprised me,” answered Mac before breaking the piece of wood in two over his knee. He then walked back to where Roger was sitting, and began tearing strips off the bottom of Roger’s shirt.

“All right. Dennis, since you are awake, I’ll need your help too. Bob, take these,” said Mac as he handed the pieces of wood and the strips of fabric to Bob. “Dennis, you’ll hold his leg up.” 

Cavendish nodded, and Bob saw him give Roger an apologetic look before placing his hands around Roger’s calf. “We’re ready Mac.” 

Bob nodded his assent. _Hey, who said I was ready? Well, at least I’m not really doing anything._

“Sorry Roger, but this is going to hurt,” Mac said, and he truly sounded sorry. “Hold tight Dennis.”

Roger closed his eyes, breathed in, and Mac took his foot with his two hands, putting it back in its natural position. The bones made a cracking sound. _Ouch!_ Bob winced instinctively, but Roger made no sound, having bitten his lower lip. Yet, when he opened his eyes again, Bob saw a few tears of pain threatening to spill. Mac, focused on his task, did not even look up. He took the pieces of wood that Bob was holding, and put them on the floor. He seemed to think for a second or two, then took one of the fabric strips too. Using one hand, he tried to maintain the two wood pieces on each side of Roger’s ankle, while tying them with the strip of fabric, but failed. 

“Wait. I’m not a cripple yet,” said Roger, breaking the cell’s silence. Mac glanced at him, _that smile, how does he smile like that?_ Roger then extended one arm and took the wood pieces from Mac’s hands. He put them on each side of his ankle, “Like this?” Mac nodded, and began to bind the makeshift splint with the strips. He did the job quickly and well, Bob’s eyes following each move of his fingers. When the last knot was tied, Mac gestured at Cavendish to let go of Roger’s calf and said:

“I think it looks tight enough. I hope it does not hurt too much.” 

“It’s good, thank you very much,” Roger said, with a tentative half-smile. “I’ll get used to the pain.”

Mac looked at him _with that smile again,_ and said: “Do you want me to move you to the cot?”

Roger nodded, and Mac helped him to get up, then supported him so he did not have to put pressure on his injured ankle. They both sat down. Cavendish leaned against the door. He and Bob made eye contact. _What to do now?_ Waiting, without any idea about your fate, was one of the worst situations. Bob knew, he could feel it, that they were all four close to the edge of their sanity. _Holding on for each other’s sake_ . Just one more little thing and fear would take over. Silence settled again in the cell. _We can only wait…_

_But what am I waiting for?_

From time to time, Mac and Roger would glance at each other, as if they too were waiting for something, anything, to happen. Perhaps, thought Bob, they were sharing a strand of thought, maybe, they just needed to ascertain that the other was indeed there, a few inches away. Bob noticed that Roger’s face had more colors now, that he looked less like he was about to pass out. 

Roger soon fell asleep, his head on Mac’s shoulder. A few hours passed, and Bob imagined it made a day. A whole day since Roger had been brought back, how long until they came again? Bob preferred not to think about it. Yet, his thoughts did not want to leave him in peace, and his mind kept coming back to Roger. _He’s acting strange._ There was something off with him, and even if Bob knew that he himself had spent a week being more than strange, it still did not feel right. 

The silence in the cell had long ago become heavy, and Bob wanted to fidget, to say something. They were three awake, but none spoke, and the silence became even heavier. Mac seemed lost in thought, his eyes unfocused and his hands in his lap. Sometimes, Cavendish glanced in his direction, as if he wanted to say something. Bob wished he had the nerves to do so, but at the same time he dreaded what Cavendish would say. After an umpteenth fleeting glance, Mac caught Cavendish’s eye and said, “Yes?”

Cavendish uncrossed his arms, and answered: “You were right then, they did not kill him.”

“Yes, thank god,” said Mac. He sounded peculiarly calm. “I do not know exactly what he went through, but there’s something else on my mind. I don’t understand why they brought him back.” 

There was something amiss, of that Bob was certain. _I mean, I can understand Roger did not tell me everything, but_ — _And when would Roger have found the time to tell him?_ Mac was supposed to know. _But Mac should have guessed what had happened!_ If he did not know, no one else would. Bob decided to chip in what little information he had. 

“I don’t know how much Roger told you,” _well, I do, since I was there, but that’s not my point,_ “but when they brought him back, I was awake, and he only asked me how long it had been,” _I made a fool of myself_ , “and he told me that they had put him in isolation, and done things of, to quote him, little interest.” _To me. He did not want to talk to me. But apparently he did not want to talk to anyone_

Mac looked intently at Bob then, and said: “You should have woken me up when they brought him. Isolation… it’s what I’ve thought. They tried to mess up with his mind. I hope he’ll get better an open up in due time. If only I could help him more.”

“It doesn’t match though. It isn’t like them to isolate someone and then put him back with his comrades,” added Cavendish. Now that he said it, Bob found the logic evident. 

“Indeed…” Mac’s thoughtfulness was clear in his voice. “They must have had something else in mind. But what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, so, this chapter was a tough one to edit, but I hope y'all liked it :) Thank you again for reading, and see you next week!


	44. Chapter 44

They must have something else in mind. _ What, pray tell, the fuck?  _ Bob felt panic rise inside him. Cavendish slowly nodded -less in agreement, more in resigned acceptance- and Mac did not talk anymore. So, the SS and the Gestapo had a new plan or something. But—  _ Why? What are they going to do? Why— Stop. _ Bob willed himself to calm down. Panicking would not help. What would help would be to add relevant material to the conversation, to try to understand what this something else could be. But Bob was tired. It was as if his mind was engulfed by a thick fog, making his thoughts heavy and blurry.

“Maybe Roger knows,” suddenly said Bob. That was not only relevant to the conversation, it was also highly probable. And he was stupidly proud to have said something, to have gotten words out of his foggy mind.

Mac looked up, his gaze studying Bob for a few seconds. He answered: “Perhaps, yet for the moment we cannot know. I said it before, Roger will talk in due time.” A small smile graced his lips, short-lived. “That’s just how he is. You know, I had to guess most of what happened to him before.”

Cavendish nodded again, as if he knew what Mac was talking about. Maybe he did. Bob did not. Of course, he could not ask it like that. Roger could wake up at any moment, and, even if Mac was nice, he would probably not answer such a personal question about Roger. If Roger had not really told him whatever had happened, Mac would respect that. Bob would just have to wait then.  _ Wait and eavesdrop again— It won’t change anything.  _ His own internal voice startled him. There was an element of truth there though. Knowing what had happened to Roger before was of no use to him. Hell, even knowing the SS’s plan would change nothing! What would he do? Would he be prepared? No,  _ no, no. _ Even if Bob knew what they wanted from him, the next time they took him away, he knew very well that fear would take over. Even thinking about it made him shiver. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind of these thoughts.

“Roger—” Mac had taken Roger's hand in his, and he kept looking at it while he spoke. “He feels responsible for what is happening to us. For what happened to the others. If the Gestapo and the SS used this guilt against him, who knows what he is thinking now? He might even think he was brought back with us as part of an intricate punishment; that they are going to hurt us because of him, and that could be why he is retreating into himself.”

That was not the distraction from his thoughts Bob had expected, but he should have learned better than to expect anything by now. “Is it not what they want to do?" Bob asked before he could think about whether or not it was a smart thing to say. "Use us to make him talk?”

Mac looked up at him. He seemed startled by what Bob had said, but schooled his feature back to their usual softness in the blink of an eye. “Perhaps," he said, in a surprisingly level voice, "but even if it is the case, that is not his fault. And not our fault either.”

"They don't care if it's anyone's fault," Cavendish said. It seemed to Bob that he was not moved at all by what they were talking about. "If they say you are guilty of something, then you are guilty. This is how things work here."

"He's right. And they— They could make him blame us too." Bob had not expected Mac to say this, especially not with this air of hopelessness he had. It did not fit him, it almost hurt Bob to seem him that way.

"He would never blame us!" Bob said -almost shouting it. "We're innocent!" He did not know why he had felt so strongly about this, but there had been a fleeting pain in the back of his head, a warning or something.  _ A memory? Could it be? _ Perhaps he had wanted to entice another reaction than this hopelessness from Mac.

"Innocent. Yes. We are innocent," Mac answered, and there was something so sad to his tone of voice that Bob regretted speaking at once.  _ You only made things worse. Good job. _ "I harbor no delusions over what they can do. They can convince you that your own shadow is to blame for everything that went wrong in your life, and sometimes... sometimes blaming others is the only way  to survive. Roger is strong, and I know he will fight it. He is fighting it right now. But it will destroy him."

It would destroy him.  _ It will destroy all of us.  _ Bob did not know what to add. He did not want to had to Mac’s pain, anything but that, but at the same time, he wanted to fight. He did not want to be just a pawn in this game the Gestapo and the SS played against them. 

"There is not much we can do about it anyway," Cavendish added. "They know our demons and faults. It's only a matter of time."

Bob looked at Cavendish. He was still leaning against the door, arms crossed on his chest, and he did not look afraid. He did not even look nervous. he would have sworn Cavendish was going to add something to his sentence.  _ Be stronger than them. _

_ It’s only a matter of time. Be stronger than them. Don’t let them— you are innocent.  _ He had heard this before. But where? When? Why was it so familiar? Had Cavendish said something like this back in the camp?  _ Can it be a memory?  _

"A matter of time." Mac sounded thoughtful, and a small smile graced his lips. "Yes. Time, and what to do with it. I— I just hope Roger will find the time to forgive himself, and knows that no one blames him."

_ Speak for yourself Mac—Oh come on! Stop blaming Roger for your own failures! Have you listened to a word Mac said? _

_ Shut up. _

The three of them fell silent.

_ You— _

_ Shut up. _

The silence was almost too much for Bob. It left too much space to his mind. In an attempt to clear his mind of these unwanted thoughts and voices, he asked Cavendish if he wanted to play Battleship. Cavendish, who must have been deeply bored, or caught up in dreadful thoughts of his own, gladly accepted. Mac watched them play from the cot, and Bob noticed after some time that he was still holding Roger’s hand, his thumb tracing circles over the back of Roger’s bloodied knuckles.  _ How cute. _

_ Don't mock them. _

_ I don't. I— _

_ Don't be jealous. _

_ I am not. I— _

Just as Bob and Cavendish were about to finish their fourth game, they heard a familiar noise outside. People were coming. Both Bob and Cavendish sprung to their feet, but Mac did not move. He disentangled his hand from Roger’s and straightened his back before waking him up. Roger opened his eyes, looking lost and afraid for a split second before his eyes found Mac, and he seemed to relax a little bit. Mac whispered something to him, his voice too low for Bob to hear. Roger nodded.  _ I am not jealous. _

The noise of keys in the lock.

Like a fool, Bob hoped that the SS that had stopped in front of their door would not take them away again. As the door was unlocked, he wanted to scream and shout at them.  _ No, don’t take Mac or Roger, they have just been reunited! _ Yet all of it was forgotten when the first SS went in the cell  _ don’t take me! _ gun pointed at them as two more followed,  _ I’m not there, please— I am innocent— _ gesturing for Bob to step forward  _ please no not me please please please— _

Bob said nothing of course. The SS quickly grabbed Bob’s arms, twisting them and handcuffing him, before taking him out of the cell. He felt as if his body was a rag doll, boneless, and he was surprised he did not fall when the SS let go of him arm. Well, at least his hands were cuffed in front of his body, and not behind his back. Least painful that way. Bob tried his best not to give in to panic, without much success. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Cavendish and Mac had both suffered the same fate as him. Cavendish was looking at the ceiling, and he seemed to calm for the situation. Mac had kept his eyes on Roger until the door was closed, and Bob realized only then that Roger had said nothing. He had not moved, not protested, nothing.  _ Something’s wrong.  _ But Bob could not care about this now. No, not now, not when his heart was beating so furiously in his chest, not when his arms hurt from the position, not when it had suddenly become too real again. A SS pushed Bob forward, and his feet started walking of their own accord.  _ NO! _ From now on, it could only be worse.

Everything in the corridor was quiet except their footsteps. Bob, who walked in front, could not see the two others, but he supposed that they were not in a better shape than him.  _ they have to panic at one point. They have to. It’s human. They have to—  _ Strangely enough, after a few minutes of walking, walking, climbing down stairs, turning left and then right, it seemed to Bob that they were not going to the torture chamber. In his memories, it was closer to the cell. 

_ It’s not right— No, it’s not right! _ They must have something else in mind. 

Bob felt his breath quicken. He did not like it, not at all. Would the SS isolate them, like they had done to Roger? What else had they done to him?  _ Please— _

The SS leading them suddenly stopped. There was a door to the right, that looked like any other cell door that they had passed by. Quickly, one of the SS unlocked the door, and Bob saw a empty, small cell. No window, nothing. At the very sight of the cell, Bob could feel himself almost becoming claustrophobic.  _ Calm down.  _ Yet, he was lucky for the moment as they shoved Cavendish in the cell and not him. He dared to breathe again, his survival instinct overriding his conscience.  _ Better him than me, better him than—  _ His respite was short lived though, as the SS urged them to begin walking again, only to stop in front of another door about forty feet away. 

It was Mac’s turn this time, and Bob had time to see him smile one last time before the SS locked the door. A small, sad smile. Apologetic. 

Bob was left alone with the SS,  _ please no—  _ and they walked to the next door. Bob felt a SS grab him by the shoulder, and before he had the time to react or say anything he was thrown into the tiny cell. The door closed as quickly as it had opened, and Bob was left in the dark, in a cell that must have been half as big as the one they usually were in.  _ No— _

Everything was silent now, silent and dark,  _ so dark… Please, let me out! _ Bob finally gave in to panic. “Let me out! Please! Anyone?!” His breathing was quicker, quicker to the point of hyperventilating, tears running down his cheeks as he fell to the floor, unable to move anymore. __

_ It's much better when one is all alone.  _

_ Much better. _

_ Please— I don’t want to die here… _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and have a nice last month of 2020!  
> See you next week, and thank you for reading <3


	45. Chapter 45

Bob did not know how long it took him to move again. He had stopped crying when his eyes and heart had dried up, his breathing slowly returning back to normal. His anguish had subsided because of the exhaustion of crying. No doubt it would come back later, Bob did not trust his mind’s apparent calm.

The cell was dark, and Bob dared to look around. The cell looked smaller on the inside than it probably was. It had no window, and with time Bob’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He began to see things, a thin line of lighter dark at the foot of the door, painting a few centimetres of the floor a lighter grey, and reflecting on something dangling from the ceiling.  _ A light-bulb?  _ Bob looked more intently at that thing above him but it was still too dark to be certain of a shape. Had his hands been free, he could have tried to reach for it.  _ —they kept me chained without food or any contact. There was so much light— _ The voice took Bob aback, and it took him a few seconds to realize he had not heard the voice, but it had come from his own mind. It was strange though.  _ Did someone tell me this? Who? When?  _ Bob tried to remember the words, but his mind was blurry.  _ Something about light… but it’s so dark here.  _ Bob felt suddenly drawn to the light under the door. The outside. A crudely lit corridor, that was how Bob remembered it. The outside… _ dark pine forests, a grey town and grassy fields—  _ old buildings he had never seen before, a white ceiling. Bob wanted to burn his eyes on the dim light under the door. Take it all it and remember it later, if he could still remember. 

Bob decided to try to stand up. Exhausted as he was, even a small victory such as getting up, trying to touch the walls and the door would be worth it, and it would take his thought away from the outside and the memories. He had to be careful, if he did not want his mind to snap. Speaking of his mind, Bob found it strangely quiet now. In tune with the cell’s silence. Eventually, Bob managed to get up, stretching his shaky legs. He took a tentative step forward, and that was enough for his still-cuffed hands to come in contact with the door. There was no handle, and the material –it was cold, must have been iron– felt oddly comforting under Bob’s fingers. This was real, this, he could hold on to. Bob let the door’s cold invade his body, calming down his nerves. This cell… there was something wrong with it, unless the feeling came from the hopelessness of the situation. The darkness in itself was terrifying, and Bob was more and more afraid the more he thought about it. _Isolation, that’s what it is._ Without light, without any means of knowing where he was or what would happen, he could anchor himself to whatever he could. _It’s meant to drive you crazy._ He would try to remember the corridor as long as he could, or at least until the door would open again. Then, the corridor would only become more fear, more pain, but for the moment, knowing the outside world still existed was enough. Bob could do with enough, especially if it helped him stay sane for longer. _What about the others? Where are they? What—_ _Shut up._ He wished the cold would dull his thoughts back to silence. Yet, he could not help himself, and one thought remained, nagging at the back of his mind. _What about the others?_

_ What about them? _

The others. They had to be nearby, in what had to be the same kind of cell as his, locked up in the  dark. Yet Bob did not imagine them panicking, no, he saw nothing but calm on their faces. Why did he always imagine them unafraid? They were human, just like him, and probably as hopeless as he was. Somewhere in the back of his mind, images flashing and the smell of fear. Bob closed his eyes.  _ So much— I— would have done—  _ Blood, so much blood in his mind  _ After everything that happened— _ So much pain  _ —say you forgive me—  _ so much fear in his mind. Where did these images come from?  _ What’s happening—  _ Something was tugging at the fabric of his soul. It was painful, tearing the fabric of his thoughts apart. Bob felt the cell becoming smaller around him. His eyes were wide open, and the darkness was more intense by the second.  _ Anything can happen in the dark. _ His breathing was shallow, too loud in the silence of the cell. Bob was suddenly afraid of turning around and seeing something that had always been there, something he had not seen, something old, something new, something dead,  _ someone? _

Bob closed his eyes  _ make it go away, make it go away— _ and he let his forehead rest against the cold metal of the door.  _ There is nothing here. _ He was alone in the cell. If not, it would not make sense, would it? He had to believe that.  _ I am alone. _

_ It’s— _

_ It’s much better to be alone. _

_ NO!  _ He was alone in the cell, there was no one else, but he was not truly alone.  _ The others—  _ How did they deal with the darkness and the loneliness. In Bob’s mind, they were... calm. 

Too calm.

Cavendish was not the praying or begging type, and old words rang in Bob’s mind,  _ he is sturdier than he looks.  _ He would need to be sturdy, to survive, but somehow Bob wondered if he wished to survive.  _ He is strong _ .  _ He will not just sit there and give up. He will fight—  _ Cavendish had seem strangely calm in the cell, as if he had come to terms with what was happening. Bob had never pictured him as resigned. Back in the camp, he had been too colorful for that, too much life and too many emotions in him.  _ But a few weeks ago, in the camp, he was not alone. Things were okay still.  _ This was a terrifying image in Bob’s mind, to see Cavendish so devoid of life, having chosen to wait for death rather than live what remained of .  _ Everything’s wrong now. _

Mac’s calm was different in Bob’s mind. In was not an emotionless, resigned calm, a blank look, but something more serene and gentle. Equally terrifying.  The calm of those who know they’re condemned, but who have more important concerns deep in their hearts than their own lives.  Mac was a rare breed, a caring breed. Was there any use in keeping his mask up if he was alone in a dark cell? Bob was jealous of his strength. There might have been something hypocritical there,  _ what’s the use of pretending happiness?  _ What was the use indeed, if not for the sake of others? Would Bob have kept a pretty mask on if Colin had been here? Would Colin have been strong for him, or would he have given up? What if Colin had held him responsible _ — I would have deserved it _ . _ It was my fault.  _

For a second, Bob wondered if Mac or Cavendish thought about him as well. He brushed the thought off quickly. Why would they think about him?  _ They care about you, can’t you see it?  _ Bob thought about Roger then, alone in their old cell, injured… he did not know what Roger could think about now. A part of Bob wanted him to be afraid for them, to worry, dread what would happen to them. Maybe, Bob thought, that was the catch. The SS had only separated them to make Roger weaker, not to interrogate them again. That would only be logical. They would then pressure Roger to talk or else they would be tortured.  _ Roger will never talk. Whatever happens, you know he won’t fall into traps like this. He doesn’t care enough to—  _

If Roger did not talk, they would be tortured. _But he cares!_ Killed. _It’s his fault— SHUT UP!_ What had begun as a comforting strand of thought became overwhelming in half a second. The cold metal of the door had been warmed up by Bob’s skin, and was no longer of any help. His breathing quickened. _No. Calm down!_ Bob took a few steps backwards, his back quickly hitting a wall, startling him. This cell was so small, so dark… the ray of lighter dark at the foot of the door had disappeared. The guards must have turned off the lights. _It’s gonna be okay._ _It’s so dark… so dark_ _—_ _Why am I so afraid?_ He had changed so much, in only a few weeks of being there. He had been afraid of the physical torture, the marks on his body, on his hands and face. He had feared the pain, but now he had caught a glimpse of another kind of pain. It was pain of the bones and the joints, a pain that was easily forgotten until it woke up, preventing any movement. It was an insidious pain of the mind, once there never gone.

The darkness.

The fear.

The silence.

The loneliness.

The overwhelming guilt.

Bob –the fool!– had feared physical pain, and his mind had been powerless against psychological pain. He had not been ready, how could he possibly have been? He had not known… Now he knew, or so he thought, and despaired.

When he had calmed down again as best as he could, Bob decided to get back some scraps of control over his life, and, his two hands feeling the wall of the cell to his right, he followed it. He counted four steps until he found a corner, then three, then four, the door again. Against the wall opposite to the door, he found a jug. It was half-full with water that smelled stale, and Bob could not drink with his hands cuffed.he would have to find a way, if he wanted to live.

Of course, he wanted to live. 

Even in this barren, tiny, dark cell, he wanted to survive. As long as he was able to, and whatever it would cost him.

Bob kept switching between fitful sleep and anxious loneliness for the next few days. He had decided that it must have been days, trusting his natural clock. When his stomach had begun to cramp more painfully than it usually did, a day must have passed. When stars began to appear in front of his eyes if he tried to wake up, he guessed three days, four at most. Now, the stench in the small cell was overpowering, he could barely stand up without the support of the wall… a week. His mind was silent again. He was too hungry to feed it, too tired to hear it anymore. He did not see a difference between the darkness he saw with his eyes open or closed.

If he had any voice left in him the next time a guard came, Bob was pretty sure he would beg for a ray of sunshine, a drop of clear water, a friendly voice in his ear.

In the end, he who had always tried to make it look like he did not care much for the others tried to hold on to the presence, the memories of his cellmates. They were here, near, they were here, a few doors away. He had to believe that. But sometimes memories were not enough to remain sane.

Sometimes, Bob thought –no, he was certain– that he heard a whimper, a muffled cry coming from deep within the walls. A clanking noise would wake him up, he would stand up, his whole body on edge, shaking, drenched in cold sweat, he would whisper a call, a question that was never answered. Only the silence called back. The silence and the darkness. Never once did he thought that these anguished sounds might have been coming from his friends _. _

Were they real anyway? It could have come from his own mind.  _ Memories. _

If he imagined well enough, he could make out rare clattering sounds, coming from under the door. If he pressed his ear against the iron, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine uneven steps.

And sometimes, sometimes, a heart-wrenching scream would tear at the fabric of Bob’s dark slumber, its echo invading the cell. All Bob could do then was curl up in the darkest corner of the cell, his body shaking with silent sobs of terror. His mind woke up again in these moments.

He was not truly alone. There were people outside… if the outside still existed. 

_ Don’t come for me, please. _

_ Please. _

_ Please… leave me, don’t come for me, please… _

_ Forget me… _

_ Oh they will forget you _ _ — _ _ it’s much better when one is all alone, isn’t it? _


	46. Chapter 46

_ Alone alone alone. _

Bob had definitely lost count of time. He sometimes wished his mind had the ability to remember day from night, feel the hours and count them. But there was no difference between night and day between four walls, and the passage of time was distorted by the darkness and the loneliness. The loneliness was the worst part of it, it rythmed Bob’s survival,  _ alone,  _ the words echoing again and again in his mind .  _ Alone alone alone alone. _

But time passes. It always does. There were signs of it, signs of decay. Bob did not move anymore. He was not sure his legs would be able to support his weight should he try to stand up, and for the moment he did not want to try. 

In his head, cries from beyond the walls and his mind’s voices mingled into nonsense, keeping him awake, making his head ache, his heart ache and his days sleepless. He did not mind the smell anymore, he barely noticed anymore that his his hands were cuffed, keeping them over his stomach in a useless attempt at lessening the hunger cramps. Somewhere deep inside him, a strand of consciousness was disgusted by being so pitiful, but it was too weak, too distant for Bob to listen and care about it. Its call for pride and dignity was dulled out by the noises, by the silence.

_ Alone alone alone, it’s much better when one is all alone.  _ Was Bob alone? 

The more time passed, the more something was wrong. There was a presence. It had been far away at first, inside a wall, outside the door, inside his head. The presence got closer with time, Bob wondering between the noise of his thoughts if it was friendly or not. Did friends exist in this place? _No… my friends are outside_ _—_ The presence got closer the next time Bob opened his eyes. He could almost see its shape, made of a darker black than the cell’s walls. For a long time, it did not move. Bob stared at it, and it did not move. It did not stare back either. Perhaps, Bob thought, it was the kind of presence that could only move, only act, only look when no one was looking at them. It would crawl on him the next time he closed his eyes, friendly or not, it would claw at him… He could not close his eyes, he had to keep watching, he had to keep watching until he died of starvation and exhaustion. As long as his eyes worked… _My eyes_ _—_ _Colin?_

_ No— _

Colin could not be here. Colin was dead. But Bob had grown used to sharing a room with Colin for almost a year, he could recognize him among thousands. Could he believe it?  _ You’re just a hallucination, aren’t you?  _ If it was a hallucination, it would go away. If Bob stared at him long enough, burned his eyes on him,  _ Colin I am so sorry, I— _

_ I don’t want you to disappear.  _

Bob found some kind of new purpose watching the shadowy presence. If only he had the strength to speak, to ask for forgiveness… but his mouth was dry, his lips stuck together. He could only stare.  _ Colin, I am so sorry, please _ _ — _ It was better than to listen to his mind’s ramblings,  _ Do you blame me _ _?  _ It was more real,  _ Colin _ _ —  _ because the presence was there, he could almost touch it…  _ I did not mean to kill you I am so sorry _ _ —  _ Maybe that was what he should have done since long ago.  _ After everything that happened—  _ He only had to get up and take one step forward, to extend his arms.  _ So much— I— would have done—  _ Using what little strength Bob stood up on shaking legs  _ —say you forgive me—  _ instinctively reaching for the wall to steady himself. Pushing with his hand, his fingers gripping at the smooth surface at the wall— He should not have done so. The handcuffs had made it difficult to move his hands and the lack of use had made his arms painful and weak. He fell backwards, his legs not strong enough to carry his weight on their own. His legs gave way underneath him, he tried to balance himself, failed, could not find something to hold onto. He fell, his back hit the floor, the hard, cold concrete floor, his head hit the door, the hard, cold metal door, a cracking sound, and he knew no more.

His own voice reached his ears, a hoarse scream of pain lost in the darkness.

Then there was nothing.

_ Wake up?  _

He did not.

_ What if something happens? But nothing ever happens here, you’re alone, remember? Alone _ —

He was indeed alone, unseeing, deaf, immobile.

Time passed, and Bob woke up at last. He was alone. There was no one to threaten him, the shadow presence was gone.  _ Colin _ _ —  _ Even the voices in his mind were quieter , respecting his agony, leaving him alone, leaving him to suffer on the floor.

_ Colin— were you really there? _

His days were made of endless dreams, cries outside, steps in the walls, steps in his head; bolts of pain through his back and neck. Even if he had wanted to, Bob could not have moved an inch. Even if his life had been on the line.

Time passed,  and Bob thought he saw the door open.  It was surreal. Beams of bright light blinding him,  _ so much light—  _ and soon there were two dark silhouettes in front of the light, their features indistinguishable.  _ Who—  _ Disbelief washed over him,  _ I’m not alone anymore, there is light, is this real is this real is this real?  _ Disbelief soon gave way to fear, when Bob saw the silhouettes enter his cell. Even if they could not logically take him to a place worse than this, he was a wounded animal, scared of noise and movement. Scared to be taken to the slaughterhouse. Bob closed his eyes, willing them to disappear.

Bob stopped thinking about them,  _ they are not real _ , and closed his eyes tighter.  _ They are not here. They are in my mind _ — But sometimes, even the strongest will is not enough to chase away the worst hallucinations, so real that they could almost be here. Bob felt them touch him, strong arms picking him up, and pain shot up through his back and neck and legs, he could not walk, he had no strength, they were hurting him, hurting him. The light was brighter now,  _ so much white around me _ _ —  _ Bob did not know if his eyes were open or if they were still closed. The world swirled around Bob, making him feel sick. The world moved around him, his feet unresponsive, his legs heavy and his head… Perhaps he threw up. The smell remained in his nose, on his clothes, so it must have happened. Nobody cared. They were dragging him dragging him away, yet he did not move, he could not move.

Antiseptic.

They took Bob far away from his cell, he had no way of knowing where they were going.

He lost consciousness again.

When his mind woke up again, he was half-blinded by the darkness. The world was mostly blurry around him, but Bob had a nasty feeling he knew where he was. He knew it deep inside, his guts knew it, his heart was hammering in his chest,  _ not here _ — _ not here _ —

But on the other hand, if he was here it meant they were not ready to kill him yet.  _ I don’t want to die yet— _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and look! This fic is officially more than 75k words long! Thank you or staying with Bob and reading this story that long, thank you so so much!   
> See you next monday!


	47. Chapter 47

Survival instincts were, objectively speaking, amazing curiosities. How they kept one alive and fighting even in the most dire circumstances… 

Deep withing himself, Bob still wanted to live. They were not ready to kill him yet, and yes he would suffer, he was already in pain, unbearable pain, but he was alive. Staying alive was more important than anything else. 

_ Stay alive. You’ve got to. _

Staying alive in this room would be difficult, but as long as he was alone, as long as his heart held on, perhaps he had a chance. _ It’s much better when one is all alone, it’s much better much better— _

Perhaps, thought Bob, these people who had taken him out of his cell, they were busy somewhere else, something more important could have happened, something urgent. Because why else would he be here, if they had not planned to do something to him? 

Someone died. 

They were under attack. 

The war had _ — _ a bolt of pain shot through Bob’s skull and he saw stars behind his eyelids. 

Bob heard steps from beyond. His heart skipped a beat. They were coming from inside his head, from outside the room. He could not move. Was he cuffed, was he tied up? They had left him on a hard surface -the floor?- but his head was spinning as if he had been dragged up, his arms outstretched, tied to the ceiling. His mouth was dry, he could no longer feel his legs. Bob was afraid. Pure fear. He was not ready, would never be ready. 

_ What if they tell me I’m the last one alive? They are not ready to kill me yet. There must be things— things they want to know. Things they will do to me. There has to be reason why they brought me here.  _ Bob was drowning in his mind’s voices. He felt like he was missing an important clue, a piece of the puzzle to understand what was happening. But searching in his memory was too painful.  _ I’d better close my eyes and wait for the questions.  _ Wait for the pain, wait for death.  _ No! You gotta stay alive. _

“Everything is going to be all right,” A voice came out of nowhere. “Just hold on for the moment.” The voice was circling around Bob, he could almost hear the steps. 

_ I— _

He heard a thumping sound, like a wooden object hitting the floor. Or was it his own beating heart?

“Do you remember the Alps?” _—And maybe somebody was waiting for us there Colin, we’d have landed beyond_ _the mountains, and made it into safety._

“They told us.” _Who are they? The others? The others have talked?_

_ Who are you?  _ Bob felt pain, as if his back or chest had been hit by a blunt object. Again, and again, and again. Higher, his neck, his face, lower, his spine, his legs.

His mind.

The pain was too intense, his bones must have been reduced to dust, his screams reduced to pained moans and whimpers that barely left his lips. 

A crack, broken wood. 

Broken wood, on his broken back, his broken neck. Something cold on his chest.

Antiseptic.

Silence fell over the room, the outside world snuffed out by pain. Bob was on the verge of passing out again, his eyes shut tight and his consciousness wavering. 

Several times, Bob opened his eyes to darkness. Pain and darkness,  the strangers who had come for him nowhere to be seen. 

Flashes in his mind, images, had it happened a few minutes ago, a month ago, was it foresight? 

A broken billiard queue.

Antiseptic.

A broken neck. 

A white ceiling.

A shot firing so close to him. 

Silent silhouettes by his side.

A nagging feeling,  _ something I should remember. But what?  _

Screams, his own? Someone else’s? He had not noticed if there was anybody else in the room besides him. In fact, Bob could only see a small circle around him, lit by a crude light bulb that seemed to float in the air.

_ Under different—  _ A voice from far away, from a memory he did not remember  _ —together. _

Even the face of his current torturer was blurry, undefined. It could have been a total stranger. It could have been Preissen, it could have been Dietrich, or any anonymous guard. Bob tried to force his eyes to focus on  the man . He could not see any details, but there was a ring. He remembered the ring. On the left hand. He could see the ring now. 

A broken billiard queue. A sharp pain in his arm. A hand on his chest.

His mind, his broken mind.

The walls of the room were enclosing him, he had been certain the room was bigger before, but the walls were so close now. They were echoing with screams and moans, dis-incarnated. Calmer sounds sometimes, voices Bob knew, _the long stay, then,_ sentences he had never heard, it had to be real… **_in Paris_** words from long ago. **_Go to hell._**

_ Don’t let the bastard get at you.  _

**_Reach the border and meet the others._ **

**_Prague, and you?_ **

_ There’ll be no half measure this time gentlemen.  _

**_We’re safe here._ **

_ —great together. _

Bob felt as if he was on the floor again.

**_The Alps._ **

_ The plane. _

_ Colin— _

_ I am so sorry— _

_ It’s my fault— _

_ “COLIN!” _

Bob was no longer cuffed, or tied up, if he had ever been _. I should leave.  _ He would only have to get up on shaky legs and walk. His body barely able to support his crooked back.  _ Just get up!  _ He was alone, he could he could… with a strength he did not know he possessed, Bob lifted his head up, his shoulders... almost…  _ so much pain _ . Strong hands he could not see threw him back onto, into the floor. Held him there. Unrelenting. Eyes closed tight, he left his body to those hands, there was nothing he could do, better to abandon it. 

Bob tried to stop feeling anything, but pain was coursing, pulsing through his body, the world swirled around him, his head hurt. Was he upside down? Was he being carried?  What could it mean?  They could have been carrying him back to his cell, if he opened his eyes he could try to imagine the corridor. 

When Bob finally opened his eyes again, he was in his cell. He was blinded by the darkness, the taste of blood mixed with antiseptic in his mouth and the familiar stench overpowering in his nostrils. Back in his cell. _If I am back there then… am I safe?_ He was in pain, probably dying, sprawled on the filthy floor, but safe. _I gotta believe it._

The floor was cold, the cold spreading into his body, coating the pain, numbing it a bit. The cell was dark like it always had been, and  Bob let the darkness invade his mind in a hopeless attempt to soothe it.  He swore to himself, closing his eyes again,  not to try to count the hours before they’d come for him again.

_ I won’t count the hours until my death.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this -rather confusing I hope- chapter :D We are getting close to the end of this part, and to the end of the blasted year that was 2020, so lo and behold, a Holidays Special! The next chapter is not going to be posted next Monday, but Thursday, on the 24th! (and it's going to be the same for the next three chapters -until New Year's eve, so Thursday 24th, Monday 28th and Thursday 31st, I hope you like this little treat!)


	48. Chapter 48

As he had promised himself, Bob did not try to count the hours. His body was numb, the only feelings were the cold in his fingertips and the pain in his back, dulled to an ache in the back of his mind. A constant throbbing… Perhaps the floor would swallow him… Were floors merciful? Perhaps Bob would rot alive, becoming one with the hard cold surface on which he was lying. 

There were no sound outside the door, nor in his head. Relative calm, relative safety. When he opened his eyes to the familiar darkness, he noticed that the strangers, the torturers, whoever they had been, had left him right where they had picked him up. It is not like there was much space in his cell, yet he had fallen there. He remembered falling. Shaking legs onto the moving floor. Reaching for the wall.

The wall. _Colin._

His back had hit the floor. _I remember falling._ His head had hit the door. _I remember falling._

Screams, cracking sound, bones, bones cracking. _I knew no more._

_But Colin— you were there, weren’t you?_

_I deserve this, right? Colin—_

Somewhen during eternity, the door opened. How many hours, days had passed? Bob had no idea. His body was still unresponsive, yet he managed to slightly open his eyes and saw two soldiers pick him up. They looked exactly the same as ever before, faceless, moving like automatons. They could have been anybody, and he was just another body to drag somewhere for them. A special relationship… Bob was not afraid anymore, a side effect of the pain.

He barely felt the movement, as he kept wavering in and out of consciousness. He barely felt anything, until a thumping sound woke him up. 

Darkness.

Space.

 _Someone._ Was it the shadow, coming for him? As the presence got closer, Bob felt, Bob knew who it was. _You’re not Colin— You are… different. I know you—_

_I remember that smile._

The room lit up when his eyes met Mac’s.

It was the Mac he remembered, smiling like nothing mattered, like Bob’s injuries were nothing. All the details were there, the slightly receding hairline and the reddish blonde curls, the light like a halo around his head… _Do teeth grow back?_ Mac took Bob by the hand, his touch not even painful, and Bob got up, _I can walk,_ following Mac to the cot. _I can get up, I can walk!_ Roger frowned, leaning against the wall. He and Mac shared a look. Cavendish was there too, sitting beside Roger with his eyes closed.

_I’m alive!_

Mac silently gestured to the cot, _he doesn’t need words,_ gestured for Bob to lie down, and rest, rest until the pain go away and the injuries subside.

When Bob lay down on the cot, a bolt of pain shot up his back. It might not have been a good idea, yet Mac’s hand trailed softly down his face, and he silently said, lips barely moving and eyes shining:

“Go to sleep, you will feel better in the morning. You will see.”

Bob closed his eyes and breathed out. He did not have the will to disobey. _Rest, you’re alive._

“Sleep, don’t worry.”

The night was dark, devoid of dreams. It welcomed him with open arms. 

Bob woke up in a cold sweat, his body heavy, so heavy he could not even lift his head up. His whole back was painful, he could not feel his legs, could not feel his arms anymore…

_“Sleep, don’t worry. I am here, sleep…”_

_Sleep my dear, don’t wake up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holidays Special! I hope you liked this festive chapter! :D are you confused? Do you know what’s happening? Does Bob know? I sure do not know!   
> (Also i apologise for any weird paragraph thing that could be there, I posted from my phone)   
> See you on Monday <3


	49. Chapter 49

Bob woke up and tried to open his eyes.  _ You should not have woken up.  _ There was no use listening to the voices in his mind. All he wanted was the light, the halo and the caring voice…  _ Mac I— _

His eyes did not open. There was no light, only black, a dull black that was everywhere around him. He tried to grab the cot with his hand, he tried to say something,  _ I’m alive, please, talk to me! Why can’t I see you anymore?  _ No sound came out of his mouth. Or maybe something did, but Bob did not hear it. It had been deafened by the overwhelming darkness before it could even leave his throat.

_ Is this how dying feels like? _

_ Please? _

_ Someone? _

He tried speaking again. 

There could have been many people, friend or foe around him, he would not have realized. Deaf, blind.

_ Is this—  _

_ please—  _

_ open, eyes, open.  _

_ Please.  _

Mac had to be close by. The cell was not big enough to _ — _ maybe he was within arm’s reach. But Bob could not move his arms.  _ It’s okay, I’m on the cot. I’m in the cell.  _ The cot was concrete-hard, the cell’s walls somewhere too close, too far away. The cell had a white ceiling. Yet without sight or movement, how could he know?

Bob was alone. It dawned on him like it should have quite some time ago. _ It’s better when one is— _

_ SHUT UP! _

He was alone.

_ I don’t want to die alone. _

Alone somewhere.

_ I don’t want to die alone. _

Dying alone.

_ Please— someone— I don’t want to die alone… _

The voices were softer and softer, like Bob’s mind was filled with ice. He felt no more, only his mind, cold cold mind. 

_ I told you not to wake up.  _ It was not his voice.  _ It would have been easier.  _ Who?  _ You should have listened to me.  _ Mac?  _ Have I ever been wrong? These are not the right circumstances.  _

Bob felt something, within him, clawing at his mind, his skull, somewhere down where his chest should have been. Something painful trying to get free. It burned like hell, it burned cold. 

_ Is this how dying feel like?  _

There was no light. 

There was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this -very- short chapter :D Size does not matter, does it? Actually, there is a reason why the chapters have been getting smaller as we reach the end of this part 2 of the fic.   
> Next chapter will be published on the 31st, as a New Year special. And is just dawned on me that it will be chapter 50 for you, isn't that cool? (and yes, my chapter numbers are different, like the one I just posted is number 28.2-1, and no, there is little logic to this numbering)


	50. Chapter 50

Bob woke up feeling refreshed. 

_ You should not have woken up this early. _

The sun had not yet risen, no light could be seen from the cracks in the blinds. Colin was still sleeping, the covers drawn up to his chin, looking like he was free of sin. Tiptoeing out of the room, Bob quickly washed himself up in the hut’s common washroom and put on his uniform. 

No one else was up besides him. What time is it? Oh well. He liked it when almost nobody was up. There was always noise in the camp, which was to be expected from so many men being cramped up in such a small space. With time, Bob had come to appreciate the rare moments of complete silence.

Bob also liked to have time in the morning. Not very fitting for a soldier, but he was landlocked in a prisoner of war camp, so he would hold onto each bit of luxury he could find, each comforting habit to make life more bearable. He went back to his room, rekindled the fire in the stove and lit himself a cigarette. Colin was still sleeping, and for a minute Bob wondered whether or not to put some water to boil on the stove for him. Colin would appreciate to have some tea ready when he woke up. Bob finally decided to do it, and left the room to fill the makeshift tin pot with water. 

When he came back, Colin was awake, sitting on his bed in his striped pajamas. 

“Oh, I was wondering where this was,” Colin said, pointing at the pot. “Good morning Hendley.”

“Good Morning Colin,” Bob flashed a bright smile and put the pot on the stove. "I thought you'd enjoy having hot water for your tea." Getting along with one's bunk-mate was important. Besides, he genuinely liked Colin.

“It's a nice attention,” answered Colin with a smile of his own. He got up from the bed and took the teapot, tea and two cups out of the cupboard. Then, quickly yet carefully, took a few spoonfuls of old tea leaves and dropped them in the teapot. “Thank you.”

Colin then left the room and Bob smiled to himself. he would never, a few months ago, have thought that Colin would have such a key role in the organisation. he looked so harmless... That would teach him something about judging someone's appearances. While waiting for the water to boil, Bob took the teapot and looked at the tea leaves. It reminded him of fairs and childhood stories, women who told your fortune for a couple of dollars. Well, he would not find any clue as to the escape’s outcome in these tea leaves. Bob put the teapot back on the table, and his elbow knocked over a metal cup in the process. It fell on the floor, rolling under Colin’s bunk. Quickly, Bob bent down to catch it. Too quickly. His head hit a plank from the bed frame. A splitting pain through his head, coursing down his spinal cord and into his legs.

He saw stars, biting his lip to prevent himself from crying out.  _ Stupid me—  _ He sat on the floor, holding his head in his hands, the cup forgotten at his side. 

“Goodness, Hendley! Are you all right?” Colin’s voice seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. It was loud, too loud, and Bob only managed to shake his head. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and the voice was closer, too close. “What happened?”

“Hit— my head—” Bob answered. Thinking about words was sending bolts of pain through his head. “Everything hurts—” He also tried to stand up, to show Colin that it could not be that bad, but the world went upside down and up again, and he felt his heart in his feet and his lungs tighten. Colin caught him at the last second and helped him lie on the bottom bunk. His vision was blurry, his breathing coming in short gasps.

“Here, here,” Colin said, taking the pillow and adjusting it under Bob’s neck so he would be in a better position. “Rest a bit. You must have hit your head really strongly. I don’t want to see you leave this bed for now okay?”

Bob nodded. It was rather sweet, to have Colin fuss over him like that. A bit embarrassing too. Colin filled the teapot with water, then took his uniform out of his closet. Bob closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing. It did not help with the throbbing pain in his head, but it helped him to keep calm. He heard Colin leave the room. Still lying on the bunk, Bob thought about everything he was supposed to be doing this day. Today should have been a busy day. He had a meeting scheduled with MacDonald about the gift food, and he was sure to expect a few requests for materials or whatever the organisation needed at the moment. Bob was happy to have been quickly accepted as part of the organisation, he was glad he could do his part. Together, they had a chance of going home. And here he was, perhaps bed-ridden for the whole day because he had hit his head. He felt stupid, and before his thoughts could lead him into a dangerous self-deprecating slope, Colin came back. He was fully clothed now, and he opened the blinds, leaving the window half-open. 

"Roll call is in fifteen minutes, do you feel like you can stand?"

Bob breathed in the fresh morning air, closing his eyes. His head was still painful, but the distinctive smell of the air filtered through the pine forests after a rainy night soothed the pain. It left a nice aftertaste in his mouth. He nodded. 

“I’ll cope.”

He still felt nauseous, but if he could stand and not pass out during roll call, then perhaps he would be okay for the day. Or at least, he could get the others to believe he was okay. It was just a hit on the head, nothing dire. Colin smiled, a filled their cups with tea. Bob did not trust his hands to hold the cup without spilling the tea, but the thought of the warm beverage was so tempting…  _ I don’t even like tea.  _ Colin, who must have sensed his turmoil, gave him the cup. Holding it with both hands, Bob took a tentative sip. It felt good. He hoped it would give him enough energy to hold on during roll call and not fall over and pass out.

Nothing happened during roll call, no one caused any trouble, but it still felt to Bob like it had taken hours. It had taken most of his energy to stand straight. His head was not feeling better, and once back in his room, Bob gave up, sitting down on the bed. He was ashamed of himself, but he was not a fool. What if it truly was serious... He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. If he was not feeling better by noon, he would ask permission to visit the camp infirmary. Suddenly, he felt a pang of something in the pit of his stomach, something he could not describe, a feeling gone as suddenly as it had come.  _ Mac will be there anytime soon _ —

Less than five minutes later, he heard a light knock on the door. Mac came in, carrying a wooden box. He was all dolled up and pretty in his uniform, and usually Bob would have wanted to pester him or something, but he did not even have the energy for that. 

“Colin told me what happened to you,” Mac said, putting the box on the table. “I hope it’s not too severe.” 

Bob was not even surprised Mac knew already. He must have noticed something was wrong during roll call and asked Colin as soon as it was over. Bob would usually have minded, he did not like for others to see him in his moments of weakness but there was something almost pleasant in seeing the worry in Mac’s eyes.  _ Those eyes.  _ Still, Bob had his pride, and he shook his head. “I’ll— I’ll be okay.”

Mac’s smile told him that he probably did not believe him. “Well, I had some work for you, but it’s going to have to wait. I’ll just tidy this stuff in your closet—”

Bob did not answer, and watched Mac take cigarette packets and various -rather luxurious- food items out of the box and quickly and efficiently put them away in the closet. 

“That’s already quite a stash you have there Bob,” Mac said with an amused and rather appreciative smile.  _ That smile.  _ “I am impressed.” 

Bob smiled, and searched for an answer. Thinking was painful, but he came up with something he hoped was somehow charming and up to his usual level of sass. “I take my job very seriously Mac, thank you." 

Mac paused for a second, and smiled too. His smile was... almost sad. _I wasn't that charming then. “_ Yes you do. No one ever doubted it.” Mac took the next item from the box -two bars of chocolate, a true luxury in the camp- and his smile change back to its usual sunshine.  “Under any other circumstances I’d have given you some of this chocolate, I heard somewhere it speeds up healing, but these are for work alone.”

“Work—” Bob said, his voice shaky, and the comfort of Mac's words lost on him. It suddenly did not feel good to watch Mac do everything in front of him. “I can— I can work Mac.” 

“I am not so sure. You might have a concussion.” Before Bob could add anything , Mac sat on the bunk by his side. He put a hand on Bob’s shoulder, the contact warm and comforting. “Now, you don’t worry about work and have some rest. If anyone has a request, I’ll remember it and I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Bob wanted to lean into the touch. His lids felt unnaturally heavy.  _ Something’s wrong. _ There was something wrong in his blood, making his head feel heavier through the pain, making his limps unresponsive. 

“I can tell Colin to watch over you if it makes you feel better,” Mac added. “You know you can always count on us Bob. We’re all in this together, right?”

Bob nodded. He could not refuse Mac’s smile anything.  _ That smile.  _ Besides, he could not have answered even if he had wanted to, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Mac seemed satisfied, and he stood up. Bob missed the contact at once. “Well, I’ll leave you alone for now. Sleep,” he said, a foot already out of the door. 

He was gone before Bob had the time to blink.  _ Alone.  _ He was alone. No noise came from the outside, or was it because of the pain in his ears? 

The pain. It was coming back in triplicate now that Mac was gone.  _ Sleep. _ Bob was suddenly hit by a wave of panic. He did not to fall asleep. As long as he was awake, he was alive. If he fell asleep alone… who would wake him up?

_ Sleep.  _

_ Sleep my dear, I’ll be there to wake you up. _

Bob felt himself fall down, his body paralyzed on the bed. It was as if the walls were turning black, melting at the corners of his vision. The pain in his head was unbearable.  _ Is this what dying feels like?  _ The whole room around him was spinning, breaking apart. It did not look like his room anymore.  _ Where am I?  _

He was terrified, and yet he did not have the strength to fight sleep, and fell.

_ What is this place?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sp, this chapter 50 concludes part 2! I hope you liked the chapter and the loop, and that you found some answers to your questions and many more questions along the way.   
> I also wish you all a happy new year, and let us hope that 2021 will be a gentler year than 2020 was. As for me, I thank you once again for reading this fic, it means the world to me <3 I love you all and wish you all the happiness and joy possible for the new year.   
> P.S.: from next week on, we'll be back to our scheduled Monday updates)


	51. Chapter 51

_ Sleep. _

_ Sleep my dear, I’ll be there _ — __

Bob came back to life.

— _ when you wake up _ .  Slowly, oh so slowly. Blood coming back to the tips of his fingers. He did not want to open his eyes. Sleeping felt good.  _ How long did I sleep? _ Bob wanted to remain in that liminal state between sleep and waking, but his mind was inexorably waking up. People had names again. The outside had a shape again, and the anonymous silhouettes around him were one by one painted by many familiar faces. Everything was getting more defined, little by little. His head hurt, but there was another feeling. Something nice, soothing. Fingers in his hair. In the air, dust and death, the sound of a song.  _ Just one minute more _ —

Bob came back to life. The singing stopped.  _ Did I dream it? _ His eyes met Mac’s. 

Mac looked a bit too clean for a second, but in the blink of an eye everything was back to normal. Well, as normal as things could be in the cell. Bob almost closed his eyes again, feeling the urge to fall asleep again, but he did not and looked around at the cell.

It was the very same cell he had woken up in during the last weeks. White ceiling, white walls,  _ weren’t they grey?  _ Bob squinted to see better. Grey ceiling, dull grey walls, and Mac’s eyes, so blue, so close to him. 

Mac lifted his hand away from Bob’s hair, and Bob missed the feeling at once. It was strangely nice, to wake up like this, with Mac taking care of him. Something was wrong. he should not feel nice. Things should not, by all accounts, fit together so perfectly. He remembered falling asleep, being… safe. Safety was dangerous.

He remembered.  _ Pain.  _

_ Falling. _

_ A dark place _ —  _ no. Light. A brightly lit room. A white ceiling. Many people around me. People I don’t know _ — 

_ Pain. _

_ Safety. _

_ Mac _ — How long had he slept?

“How long has it been?” Bob asked, sitting up. He had been half-lying, half-sitting on the cot, besides Cavendish who was in a statuesque sleep, his skin almost the same grey as the walls, cot and floor. Mac’s coat was draped over his shoulders, the only contrasting color. 

“How long since when?” Mac asked, still smiling. His expression had not changed since Bob had woken up, sparkling eyes and the nicely set familiar smile. “Time passes in a strange fashion here.” 

_ Since the last time… since the last time we saw each other? _

“Since I— I remember… they took us away and— I don’t know. Since they brought me back.” That, Bob remembered. He had been taken out of the cell, somewhere in a brightly lit room. “You were there at one point. But after that I don’t remember anything.”  _ The last time _ —  _ What happened? _

Something had happened, Bob knew it. He remembered Roger being brought back, a long time ago,  _ but when  _ , he was here, but he was not here anymore.  _ This room… what happened?“A week.” That sounds familiar.  _

“A week?” He repeated out loud, only then noticing that Mac had not said anything yet. It had been his voice,  _ had it not? _ This should have alarmed Bob more, but he was strangely calm.

“I would say so,” Mac answered, as if everything was normal. How could he so easily keep track of time? How had Bob guessed correctly how much time had passed? Why was he not hungrier, weaker, if he had slept a week?  _ What happened? _

“They— they did not?”

Mac shook his head. “I have been here the whole time. You were unconscious. Recovering.” Bob was not sure anymore about what he had been going to ask. But it seemed okay. Mac did not seem sad or anything, just relieved. As if he was happy to see Bob awake. As if nothing wrong had happened. _I want to believe him._

“How do you know that?”

“I—” The light flickered for half a second. Dark. Light. “It’s my job.” Normal again.  _ Under any other circumstances —  _

Bob’s mind was strangely numb.  _ Normal again. _

“How are you feeling?” Mac asked, his question echoing inside Bob’s mind, a strange reverberations of questions already asked that he had forgotten and yet knew the answers to. Questions he had not heard. 

“I — I don’t know.” He was being honest. He wanted to be afraid, to feel some pain, some proof that something,  _ anything,  _ had happened, but he was alright. Like a new beginning, or the morning after a good night of sleep.

“Your injuries are in a much better state now,” Mac said. “I was afraid at first but it seems that… all is well. I might get some rest now that you are back. I have been waiting for a long time.” Panic fluttered for a second in Bob’s heart and eyes, and Mac added, his smile showing some teeth and sunshine. “ Do not worry. Nothing will happen for now.”

Bob did not answer -what was there to say?- and  Mac sat down on the floor, in one blurry motion that made Bob wonder if he had even moved. He seemed to be already asleep _. How can he fall asleep so quickly? _

Bob watched Mac sleep for a few long minutes.  _ Hours. _

Nothing in the air moved, as if they were frozen in time. __

_ A week. _

The calm of the cell was eerie. It seemed for a split second to Bob that he was the last one alive, and had he pushed the door open, he would have found sleeping corpses of soldiers and prisoners everywhere, as if under a spell. Silence in such a place could not be natural. Bob tried to listen better, but nothing came to his ears. Was it night? It somehow felt like night, when he closed his eyes. But his nights had never been silent, full of city life before the war and too soon replaced by bombs and nightmares. More than ever, Bob wished he could go back in time, forget everything and return to his old life.  _ I would never have met any of you.  _ Enlisting had seemed like a pretty good idea back then,  _ good ideas like escaping with a plane?  _ He had regretted it more times than he ever imagined he could.  _ Colin would still be alive.  _ Bob could feel his mind slowly trying to slip down memory lane, and he shook his head.  _ Better off without me.  _ Nothing good could come out of getting lost in his memory.  _ It’s my fault.  _ Sooner than he could imagine, there would be noise again. Boots outside the cell, clinking  keys and cries of pain.  _ Punish the guilty.  _ Bob sat down, vaguely conscious that before, he would have panicked. Perhaps he should have. _ You should enjoy the calm and the silence while you still can. Before they come back for you. _ But if everything had to remain calm and silent for the moment… yes, he might as well enjoy it, enjoy the loneliness.

_ Isn’t it much better when one is all alone? _

There was nothing else to do anyway, if he forbade his mind to fantasize and remember, but to wait around to die. Were not these two the same thing here?  _ A dangerous thought Bob, see where it took you!  _ Bob shook his head to silence his mind. Yet whether he liked it or not, there was some truth there: it was easy to mistake a wish for a fickle memory, and he who fancied himself a con-man should have known better than any other. It was also too easy to wait for death.  _ Do you want to die?  _ He looked at Mac again, at Cavendish, at Roger’s absent silhouette.  _ Colin’s dead. You _ —  Sleep, unconsciousness, coma, dreams, memories, wishes, they were not so different from death in this place.  _ The liminal time and place between life and death.  _

_ But I woke up _ — 

_ I am alive.  _

_ What happened? _

From the corner of his eye, Bob saw Mac move. He had woken up.  _ He is alive.  _

_ We… we are still alive.  _ The image of Colin invaded his mind.  _ We are still alive.  _ He did not feel so good anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!  
> Happy first chapter of the third part! (Well, you get to decide whether or not it is a happy chapter, or a happy part, dear reader.)  
> Anyway, I wish you all the best for the new year, stay safe, and thank you once again for reading this fic <3


	52. Chapter 52

Mac opened his eyes, and instinctively, Bob got further away from the door, in case Mac had been awoken by a noise he had not heard. Nothing came, and Mac slowly got up, stretching his arms in the process. He looked at Bob then, and declared, his voice surprisingly cheerful:

“The floor ain’t that bad.”

Bob tentatively smiled. Was Mac trying to make him laugh, or was it genuine?  _ He probably just wants to lift the mood…  _ Bob came to wonder how such a kind soul could have walked this goddamned earth.  _ Wonder away, but have you thanked him? He took care of you for a whole week, you might as well tell him you appreciate it!  _ Bob really hated his mind sometimes. It had this self-destructive mechanics in times of need, trying to humiliate him and his usually suave confidence. Yet it was the truth. Bob knew -how did he know?- that Mac had done more for him than he would ever remember. He knew it with absolute certainty, Mac had talked to him, made him drink, healed him, kept him alive. Blurry images in his mind, where Bob saw himself from above, and the white silhouette, the nice words, the light, the caring hands…  _ it can only be Mac. _ Yet, when Bob recalled his last conversation with Mac, he did not remember showing gratefulness… it now seemed that that whole conversation had been pre-recorded, words he had expected himself to say, words he had known he would hear. Anyway, he would fix this, and now. It would be easier without prying eyes and ears to embarrass him.

“Mac?” 

Mac turned his head towards Bob, holding the water jug. 

“Do you want some?” He asked with his usual smile. “You should drink you know, you are weakened enough without being dehydrated — ”

Bob shook his head. “No, thanks.”  _ You should drink. _ “I — I only wanted to thank you. I know I am not the best at showing it, but it means something to me, that you took care of me. I —  Thank you for bringing me back.”

His sentence barely finished, Bob felt Mac’s hands on his shoulders, warm and reassuring.  _ When did he get so close?  _ “Oh please Bob, there is no need to thank me. I only did what was right. It was my duty, but more than that it’s my pleasure. You would have done the same for me…” he looked through Bob’s eyes, deep into his soul, his eyes so blue and kind. Bob felt himself blush  _ how uncharacteristic _ , and stuttered:

“Yes —”  _ No? I _ —  _ I don’t know. _ “Yes, I mean of course Mac.” To be honest with himself, Bob hoped he would never find himself in such a situation. Bob was convinced he was not good at taking care of people. Colin was the perfect example and contradiction to that statement, and he preferred not to think about that now. Mac had probably noticed Bob’s fleeting turmoil, but did not press. His smile broadened a little bit, and he said, squeezing Bob’s shoulders before letting go:

“It’s important to rely on each other. To survive, and to be stronger than them. We have to remain together. Do not forget that Bob. And if you need me, I will always be there for you. Whatever happens.” 

His voice sounded like a promise to Bob’s heart, like a lie to his mind, but he decided to believe Mac.  _ We’ll be great together.  _ Deep in his hear, Bob hoped the both of them might survive in the end, hoped that he would not be alone after the end. Although he could not remember all the events that had led to this exact moment, Bob knew he had almost lost himself in the past, he had almost given up on living, but it was going to be okay. As long as he hoped and held on, he would make it. 

_ We made it so far. A week, a week, a week. We can make it. All of us. Together, we can survive. _

Silence fell over the cell once again, and as comforting as silence and calm could be, Bob still felt drawn to talking. Was it because he virtually had Mac to himself? Cavendish was still asleep, he had not moved an inch.  _ Nothing ever changes…  _ Bob wondered what had happened during the last week. Mac had said he had been in the cell the whole time, but had something else happened? And did Bob want to ask him for conversation’s sake or did he genuinely want to know what had happened?  _ What could have happened? Nothing ever changes.  _ As dangerous as it was, Bob decided to try to remember what had happened to him before, the last time he had been in the torture chamber, but nothing came.  _ A light room. _ He tried his best not to focus on the words, but there was only silence, and not the comforting kind. There was pain, pain from inside,  _ a shadow,  _ and he could feel it coiled within, the pain, the pain ,  _ the pain— no, think about the environment. Has anything changed?  _

_ Is anything missing? _

_Roger?_ Bob was startled by this thought, and even more so when he realized that he had not cared at all whether Roger had been in the cell with them or not. He had noticed his absence and brushed it off earlier, an empty space and the lingering shadow of a silhouette. Where was he? Dead? Still Alive? Mac would know, but then again, Bob was sure asking Mac about Roger was not the best idea. _It must be even worse for him. How long has it been since the last time they saw each other?_ He would learn in due time, and all things considered— _Don’t go further. Next you’ll be wishing him dead? Find something to do Bob, but please don’t go there!_

_ “ _ Say, Mac?”  _ Bob— think about what you are going to say next. _

“Yes?”

“Did anything happen while I was out?” Bob tried to make his voice sound as tentative and tactful as possible.  _ I knew you would ask this. _

Mac looked deep in thoughts for a few seconds, as if he was sorting out the information Bob could know from his more personal perceptions.  _ Nothing much changes here.  _ “Not much, as you can imagine. They are being harder on Dennis.” Mac stopped talking, his eyes on the sleeping object of his words. Cavendish’s skin seemed to have more colors than a few hours before, as if an invisible painter had colored the skin and flesh of a plaster body.  _ Just like I remember him,  _ just like he had on the first day, when Bob had met him.  Bob felt a twinge of pain in his heart, something he could not place, but something dreadful. A terrifying familiarity. That painful feeling only increased when Mac spoke again: “And I am afraid they will not stop. Not that Dennis… oh well, you know _ — _ you might not want me to talk about this. I am sorry.”  _ If it’s about death I’d rather not, thank you very much.  _ Yet Bob did not answer, did not say anything, and Mac locked eyes with him, searching for something deep inside. Finally, Mac said, a dark cloud over his eyes, “When they kill him, I just hope they will be quick.”

_ No! _

“Who’s funeral is it?” Cavendish’s voice startled Bob. _No! No—_ _Please—_ He had of course not noticed Cavendish had woken up, as if prompted by Mac talking about him. His voice was as Bob remembered it to be. Everything was falling into place.

Mac laughed, the sound too light, comforting like broken glass falling on the floor. No mercy for the shock Bob felt. “Come on Dennis, I was only telling Hendley the news, I am afraid I am not burying you yet!”

Cavendish shrugged, “Well, as you said, better hope they make it quick, and the sooner the better,” He got up from the cot and walked over to the door, leaning against it, not a care in the world. “And in the meantime, all we can do is wait around to die.”  _ He— _ Bob did not understand Mac and Cavendish. Even after everything he had gone through, he was not ready to die.  _ How could they—  _ He wanted to hold on to life until the very last moment, until life would be unbearable. He looked at Cavendish.  _ It can’t be that bad, can it?  _ One look at his injuries was enough to tell Bob that yes, it was bad, and probably bad enough to make someone wish for death. Burns, added one by one to his skin as Bob studied him, cuts, countless bruises, no way to heal correctly, and more injuries hidden beneath his clothes that Bob preferred not to know about…and some he almost remembered. Useless pain,  _ he is sturdier than he looks.  _ Bob looked at Mac, hoping for sadness, for support, for anything. Mac cared, he could not let Cavendish say that! _You cannot just accept it—_

“We shall see what they do.” finally answered Mac, looking neither at Bob nor at Cavendish. Bob could hear, behind his words, the uncertainty, Roger’s fate hanging on a thin thread, and Mac’s own so tightly linked to it. Where was Roger? Was he even still alive? Bob, following his mind’s advice from moments ago, did not ask. He decided to enjoy the companionable silence and to wait. They all waited for some time then, lost in their minds but not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was surprisingly difficult to edit (i legit spent the last hour before posting on the Ao3 draft changing bits here and there, hugghhghghgh) Anyway, I hope you enjoy it and that there are not too many typos left.  
> thank you again for reading, and see you next week!


	53. Chapter 53

For the next two hours or so, Bob replayed Mac and Cavendish’s words in his mind. He was restless. There was something Bob did not understand, a missing part of the equation. He wondered if Cavendish was all bravado, if he would panic at the close, beg to be spared. He wondered if Mac was not deep inside the one who could wish to die. He wondered if Roger could already be dead. _Without Roger…_ Bob looked intently at Mac. He was not one to pray, but if there was a God above, he would spare Mac. _You know what they say, whom the gods love die young._ Mac was not young, and neither Roger nor Bob were gods anymore. Mac, who had noticed Bob’s eyes on him, only smiled, and silence remained. In another time, it could have been peaceful. Time ticked by, Bob’s eyes closed on their own accord, and he was almost unafraid to fall asleep. _Mac will wake you up._

_ Sleep.  _

Time passed. It always does, and as always, Mac woke him up. “Hendley!” Soft and warm hands, hurried, “they are coming!” quick whispered words, “wake up Hendley!”  _ It’s too soon! _

Bob opened his eyes, alert at last. His breath was short, panic rising in his core.  _ They can’t be coming for me! _

The tension was thick, the air still. Cavendish’s eyes fixed on the door as it opened. Two guards went in, stood by the door as the third grabbed Cavendish by the arm and led him outside.  _ Not for me _ —  _ Better him than me _ —

The door closed and Bob’s breathing slowed down. He should not have felt relieved, where was his empathy,  _ they’re gonna kill him!  _

_ He wants it. _

_ He _ —

_ Better him than me.  _ “Are they are going to kill him?” Bob asked out of the blue, as if someone would answer, as if the answer could be anything but yes.

Mac sat down beside him, his smile reassuring and a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe today, or in a few weeks. How can we know? Time passes in a strange fashion here.” 

Bob bit his lip, fighting the urge to plead,  _ but you know everything, you must know this!  _ Mac’s hand was rubbing his shoulder, slow and warm.  He needed to say something, to change the subject before his mind drove him crazy.  __ Bob felt his tongue and lips move on their own, and before he could stop himself to think about what he was going to say, he asked:

“Does Cavendish really want to die? ” _Good job._

Mac breathed in, and glanced at the ceiling. _No, really, well done._ “I don’t know. I’d rather not think about it, but I suppose he could want it to happen. He could try to make them angry enough to kill him without thinking. We all know they’re going nowhere, the Gestapo and the SS. Even if one of us wanted to tell them any information we might have had— it’s too late now.” Before Bob could answer, he went on: “They have no reason to keep us anymore, except to punish us. Anyway, I can understand Cavendish for wanting it to end. It’s not like they will be letting us go any time soon, so why not choose another way out?”

“Another way out,” repeated Bob, his mind barely registering the words.

“Yes. For when all else fails, when there’s no hope left.” Mac blinked a feeling out of his eyes and went on, “Beware of hope Hendley. It’s dangerous to hope. Yet we all have something to hope for. To hold on to. We need it to survive. Just remember to never let them know what it is you are hoping for.”

_We all know what you are hoping for_ — Bob’s inner voice had a bitter sound, almost envious. But he had no right to be envious of anything or anyone. Shaking the nasty thought out of his head, Bob tried to concentrate on hope. For too long he had hoped for a reality he barely believed in now. _Colin_ — But Colin was safe in the void between reality and the unknown. Now was time to hope for something else. _Survival!_ Bob looked at Mac, their eyes locked for a brief moment. A smile suspended in the air. _No. They will never know what I hope for now._

_ I _ —

_ I am not even sure I know it. _

“Do you think Cavendish has lost hope?” Bob asked, afraid he already knew the answer. He almost remembered a conversation from a long time ago, an aftertaste of regret. Something about guilt. Hoping for forgiveness.

“Had he any hope in the beginning?” Mac said, his voice uncharacteristically somber. “Besides, once you’re dead, you do not have to hope anymore. Your guilt. Your responsibility. They do not matter anymore when you die, do they? Perhaps they matter for those left alive, but you are not there anymore to see it.”

“You don’t really mean it, do you?” Bob could barely believe Mac was telling him this. Mac was an optimist, he could not think that. _I don’t want to listen_ — _Why_ — _Why did you have to ask!_

“You do not have to forgive yourself when you die, and you do not have to blame yourself anymore either. Your past mistakes, everything that was important… scattered, off to the four winds.”  _ No! _

“Wait —”  Bob felt himself turn pale. “He — Does he think he deserves to die?”

“Don’t we all?” Mac asked.  _ NO!  _ Before Bob could react, Mac smiled and added: “Well, it all depends on your point of view I guess.”

Bob’s survival instincts were too strong to accept that. There was still a way out for him, he knew it deep inside his heart. _It’s not too late!_ He was sorry for Cavendish if his way out was wanting death, _are you really sorry?_ _You never really cared for the others… Focus on your survival Bob._

_ We need hope to survive. _

The door had been closed for several minutes already, and the tension was closing in on Bob.  _ They will never know what I hope for now.  _ Closing in,  _ but what if they already know? What if I lose hope?  _ Thick.  _ They did not come for me. _ Terror at the doubt.  _ What if they already know?  _ They had not taken him.  _ Maybe that’s why? If they know they know they’re waiting that’s why they did not take me—  _

_ They waiting until I think I deserve to _ —  _ But i don’t want to die! _

Bob suddenly felt a contact against his skin, breaking his flow of thoughts.“You’re trembling.”

_ What?!  _ Mac was holding his left hand. Bob looked down at it, he was indeed trembling, and so were his arms and legs. How had he not realized? Too caught up in his mind, trying not to panic,frantically hoping, his body needed an outlet. Now that Bob saw it, focusing on something else was getting more difficult. He was at the same time painfully aware of little details, the stale air, the sweat down his back and arms, his racing heart, pumping blood into his temples, behind his eyes, in his throat , compressing his chest… and at the same he was dizzy, he could not concentrate, control slipping away from his numb trembling hands. 

_ I don’t want to die _ —

_ It’s too late. Too late _ — 

Something warm, Bob slightly felt something warm around him.  _ No _ — His mind was too fast, painful. Something warm, then a rubbing motion.  _ These are not the _ —

Slow, slow motion.

Somewhere a voice enticing him to calm down. To breathe. He was alive, he could breathe.  _ They _ —

Bob was exhausted. His breathing was less erratic, his eyes were closed. The same voice, from far away, was trying to to get him to sleep now. Bob found he could not resist that voice, even the fear was numbed away. He knew no more. 

_ Sleep.  _

How much time passed? Not much probably, for the people walking outside in the streets, somewhere in Europe. Time is, by essence, subjective. For Bob’s mind, floating in a thoughtless, dreamless sleep, it could have been an eternity. An empty eternity, safe, quiet. White and grey. He was waiting, without even knowing it, waiting for his fear to become meaningless, for the air to move, a cue to wake up again. 

_ The right circumstances. _

Eternity.

A melody found Bob, lost far in his sleep, soft words, the beginning of a song. Note by note, it lured him into waking up.

The voice was familiar now. _Who_ — It could only be Mac's voice, it was soothing, and yet it was alien, it did not belong in the cell. Had Bob heard Mac sing before? _He's not singing for you... he's just bored._ Bob wanted to be lulled to sleep again by the voice, but something prevented him to.

Was it something in the words -a language Bob did not understand- or was it something in his voice? _Mac_ — Bob's eyes fluttered open. He breathed in, the panic inside him calmed down by sleep and music. Mac's eyes were closed, his back to the door, his head slightly tilted back. He had stopped singing, and sensing Bob's stare, he opened his eyes and smiled.

_ Why did you stop? _

Mac was at Bob’s side in a few steps, all music gone from the cell. “Are you feeling better?” Bob nodded.  _ You were singing.  _ “You had a panic attack”  _ That song?  _ “For a second or two I was afraid you were going into shock.” From the tone of Mac’s voice, Bob realized how worried he had probably been.

“I guess I am feeling yes… thank you, I — ” he paused, trying to find a word, but his mind was still focused on trying to remember the song, that soothing feeling of safety he had felt in his sleep. Mac seemed satisfied with his answer though, he lightly patted Bob’s shoulder and asked:

“Do you mind if I take my coat back? It’s a bit chilly in here.” 

“Y-yes of course!” blurted out Bob, who had not noticed before that Mac had artfully wrapped the coat around him to keep him warm. One glance at Mac’s naked chest before he slipped it on told Bob that it must have been quite cold indeed. Bob felt miserable. He was more of a burden than anything else… yet this feeling did not last long, as he heard again, a light hum, the melody of the song. 

“You were singing.” Mac turned around, facing Bob with a quizzical look on his face. “When I woke up. You stopped.”

“Is me singing such a surprise?”

_ Yes!  _ If Bob was honest with himself, he did not know. He had never paid attention to that in the camp. Yet Mac brushed it off quickly and added: “Cavendish was singing a few days ago, and that silly thing has been stuck in my head since then.”

Bob surprised himself by chuckling. A muffled sound, as if afraid to be heard, but Mac did hear it and his smile broadened. 

“Oh well, it’s not that silly,” There was an undertone to Mac’s voice, if Bob thought about it. It was almost like talking to make up for the silence of their absent comrades. Fast words, unimportant. But to Bob Mac’s voice was nice, and he did not care, talking was good, he liked to talk about little things, it would help forget, it could only help. “It’s a nice song, but I don’t know all the lyrics,”  _ Something you don’t know? I can’t believe it!  _ “It’s this sort of thing that only make sense when you don’t actively think about them, a bit like this place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter :D We are getting closer to 100k words... and the fic is not even halfway published! Anyway, feel free to leave me your thoughts and comments, I always love reading them, and thank you very much for reading!  
> Stay safe, wear your masks and see you next week! <3


	54. Chapter 54

Something was left hanging in the air after Mac finished talking. _Something’s wrong. Perhaps talking does not help_ — _Perhaps it only makes sense when you don’t actively think about them._

White ceiling.

Antiseptic.

Whispers of words he could not understand.

_Where am I? What is this place?_

Bob wanted for everything to make sense. It was less painful that way. He was no philosopher, he did not care about the virtues of doubt. He wanted things to be normal again. He longed for the smell of pine trees in the air, he longed for the fog in his mind to clear. He had to face the truth though, _nothing is normal here._ The light was wrong, the air was wrong, the way time passed… and how Mac had not even called him Bob in their last conversation. All wrong. 

_Did I do something to upset him?_

He had only asked a few questions… there was nothing wrong with that, right? Besides, Mac had not seemed to mind answering them. _Perhaps he is just tired of me. Who could blame him?_

Blame. Perhaps Mac blamed him for something. But for what? _Could it be? Colin_ — Mac had been, after all, the first one to notice that Colin was going blind. _What if he blames me for convincing Roger_ — Did Roger blame himself for allowing Colin to escape? _But why would Roger blame himself? It was my decision, my responsibility._ Roger could have done more, Bob knew it. — _pulled rank on me, he did not have to_ — As he had told Bob an eternity ago, who could tell how far a commanding officer should be permitted to play God? _Is God to blame for everything that happens in our life?_ It would be so easy to blame God. So easy to blame the commanding officer. So easy to blame oneself for someone else’s choices. _Our choices_ —

_We all made our choices._

For the first time in forever, Bob wondered why had Roger given in so easily. What had it been, that had made him change his mind? Had it something to do with Mac? _You’re the biggest hazard we have._ It had been Mac’s responsibility to tell Roger about Colin’s blindness. It had been Roger’s responsibility to tell Colin not to go. Bob had disrupted this perfect balance. _No one has said you can’t go._

It was Roger’s fault if Mac had been caught. _But why blame me?_ Bob wished he could have been a fly on the wall of their room that night. He wished he could understand the grand scheme of the world.

_You’re responsible._

Bob’s thoughts were starting not to make sense anymore.

_You’re guilty._

Too many voices, blurry memories, a whirlwind in his mind. 

_It’s your fault._

Familiar voices from a past he could not remember.

_It’s only a matter of time. Be stronger than them. Don’t let them— you are innocent._

A dull ache in the back of his skull becoming more and more painful by the minute.

 _—_ _do not matter anymore when you die, do they? Perhaps they matter for those left alive, but you are not there anymore to see it._

Bob closed his eyes in an attempt to keep the wild horses in his mind from thinking too much.

_Those left alive._

He tried to keep his breathing slow and steady, anything not to panic again.

_The living._

He thought he had heard Mac sing again, but no, the cell was silent, it must have been a trick of his mind.

**_Come back to the living._ **

Come to think of it, he would have wished for Mac to sing again, or touch him, or call him by his name. 

_Don’t we all deserve to die?_

But Mac did not pay attention to him, and Bob was afraid that if he were to open his eyes, he would find him gone, vanished from the cell. It was safer to keep his eyes closed, to narrow down his world to the silence of the cell, the silence of the corridor. His mind was silent too, at last. 

Time passed.

Time passed slowly, strangely. 

The thick blanket of silence almost covered the sound of boots in the corridor. _Open your eyes!_ Bob opened his eyes too late, the key already turning in the lock. _They’re coming, you idiot!_ They could not bring Cavendish back in, it was too soon. They were coming for him or Mac. _Please not me_ — _not him_ — The door opened, Bob’s breathing too quick, his heart too loud. His vision blurry. Mac stood up, and the guards closed the door again. Mac’s eyes had lightened, the corners of his mouth had turned into that smile that Bob had come to cherish so dearly. He could have sworn Mac had de-aged of a few years. At last, Bob understood.

 _He_ was the reason. Bob did not know what to feel, what to think. On the one hand, he was relieved to see Roger alive, _we can’t afford to lose somebody,_ they all needed Roger’s strength, his shine. On the other hand, Roger’s return meant Bob would no longer have Mac’s undivided attention. He already missed it. Jealousy poisoned his blood drop by drop as Roger and Mac locked eyes. They were speaking silent words and reading each other’s minds, embracing each other at last, there is no shame in showing you care. Mac was checking Roger for injuries now, and Bob, following the swift graceful fingers from the corner of his eye, saw nothing. Only Roger, thinned down to a shadow of his old self, looking as grim as ever, starved and exhausted but almost no blood except in his hair. 

_So you still live._

Finally, Roger spared Bob a glance. A nod, barely a greeting. There was no emotion in his eyes, except perhaps a dull shimmer of satisfaction to see Bob still alive. _As if you care. I don’t care._ Bob only cared about Mac’s glowing smile, invading the cell.

Roger took a few tentative steps in the cell, and sat down with his back against the wall, taking a few deep breaths. Mac sat down beside him, and Roger took his hand, closing his eyes. 

Long minutes passed, before Roger opened his eyes again and said, his voice definitely too heavy for Bob’s tastes, “Dennis sends his regards.” _What? Does that mean_ —

Mac laughed, sad and strangled. “Brave chap.” _He_ —

“There was nothing I could do,” the distress was thick in Roger’s voice, Bob could feel it in his own throat, disturbing. “He remained calm the whole time, they would have killed him anyway— He—” 

_No! How can you know? He was alive just now! He cannot be dead_ — _It_ — _It’s not right!_

“That cannot be true!” Out of the blue. Bob had had no reason to say that, his voice almost accusing. His mind denying all that Mac had told him. Forgetting it as quickly as possible. Drawing conclusions. He had reacted so quickly, a defense mechanism. Better to be in deny, better to forget, _we cannot know who’s coming back or not. If I cannot know whether Colin is alive or dead_ — 

Roger did not answer, he turned away his eyes from Bob. Bob understood that he had missed something, _I am not that stupid. I_ — Mac looked at Bob, and the indifference there was worse than disdain. 

“It’s finished now. He is in a better place, away from pain and all this nonsense,” Mac said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“He did not deserve to die.” Roger’s voice broke. It was something Bob wished he had never heard, and yet it was almost familiar, an intimate memory just out of reach. “I am nothing but a murderer!”

Mac then slipped an arm around Roger’s shoulders and shifted closer to him. “Nobody deserves to die Roger,” _That’s not what you were saying a few hours ago!_ “But he fought for a cause he believed in, and he was willing to pay with his life for that.”

“I killed him.” Bob would never have been able to reconcile this hopeless Roger with the man he was trying his best to despise. “I killed you all!” _Yes you did. I suppose— I don’t know anymore._ _I don't know what to think._

Mac made a soft shushing sound, and even though it had been meant to calm or comfort Roger, it effectively shut Bob’s mind up. “No you did not kill anyone. Don’t let them mess up with your head. They are the killers. You are innocent… Only guilty of giving people hope.” 

Hope. _We all have something to hope for. We need it to survive._

“How can you— how can you still—” Roger’s voice was broken down by sobs, his breathing erratic. 

Mac did not answer at once, caressing Roger’s hair with his free hand until he was calmer.

“I don’t know,” he finally said, “Maybe, maybe I still have a reason to see the light.” A longer pause. “And I don’t know if I can bear losing it.”

“Oh Mac… how lucky I am to have you.” 

Bob felt as if he was invading a very private moment, Never before had he wished to be deaf or blind. That hope they were talking about was not his hope. That companionship, he would never have. As strange as it was, he could no longer deny that Roger cared. Was it a result of the tortures? A break in his armor? _Or have I just been blind the whole time?_

“We have each other, Roger,” Mac lightly kissed Roger’s hair and he closed his eyes, an eerie smile on his lips. “Everything will be okay as long as we have each other.” 

_You have each other. And I_ — _I am all alone._ Along among the living.

_Isn’t it much better when one is all alone?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter :D It was a little bit bitchy to edit, but I think I really like the result :)  
> See you next week!


	55. Chapter 55

Everything stayed silent for some time then. Bob was left with his relative . Oh, how he wished for someone to have him like Roger and Mac had each other! He had to face it, he was jealous of Mac and Roger’s bond. How easy it seemed to be, to look out for each other, hope for each other, to have a reason to live. Bob wondered how far it went. Had the fires of war ironed it, or was it more ancient? Time passed, Bob knew he would not be able to go to sleep. 

Too much had happened.

Cavendish was dead. 

Bob should have seen it coming, he had almost seen it coming, _ even Mac knew! Better him than me… better… better…  _ He did not understand his own feelings. He was not sad, yet he wanted to care.  Could he be sad for a man he barely knew? Bob could not read his own heart anymore. He had become like a stranger to himself, letting some unknown parts of his mind take control. What had they done to him? If he ever escaped, if he was ever freed, would he be able to live again? Everything seemed meaningless now. 

Would he be sad if Roger was to die next?  _ Better him than me.  _

Time passed,  Roger’s eyes were closed, his head on Mac’s shoulder, asleep. Mac, on the other hand, had his eyes open, unfocused. Awake yet far away. His hand was resting on Roger’s shoulder, an unconscious circle motion, familiarity. 

Mac ignored Bob as he left the cot, too busy thinking, or did he resent Bob for his earlier comment? For the first time, Bob truly felt the emptiness, the absence. They were only three now. He would have shared a few words with Cavendish, played battleship? Human connection, a gateway from the fear. Funny, how one person less made him feel like being one too many. 

_ The easy way out. _

They would never be four again, and Bob had not even properly said goodbye. Bob had never taken the time to get to know Cavendish. His memories of him… an image, a presence in the camp,  _ There is so much I wish I had done—  _ during the meetings, a voice —  _ have you ever fallen in love? _ A presence in the cell.  _ I don’t want you to die. Don’t leave me alone.  _ Some sort of certainty. Some sort of safety. 

_ It’s only a matter of time _ — __

“ It is especially hard for Roger. ” Mac’s voice surprised Bob.  _ You do not resent me?  _ Bob did not know what to answer. Mac did not seem to mind. Mac never minded. “ He will not show it, but believe me,” Mac’s hand squeezed Roger’s shoulder, “he cares.”

“Oh?”  _ I _ — 

“I am sorry.” Mac smiled a sad smile. “It must be hard for you too.”

“Oh.”  _ No? Maybe? Yes _ _ —  _

Mac went on, apparently not caring about Bob’s laconic answers. “I hope all this will _ — _ No. I hope Roger will tell me what happened to them. I can sense it’s no good. If he bottles it up it will only be worse. He is resistant, but even he has limits.”  _ Worse for whom? I don’t care about him and his limits, sorry Mac.  _ “But for the moment I am afraid the shock of Dennis’s death is too fresh. He needs time.”  _ I cannot afford to care about him. _

“Okay.” Roger, shocked? Bob wanted to conveniently forget the conversation he had heard. He wanted to have never heard the sobs, never seen his face marked by the clear traces left by tears trailing through grime. Why was it so difficult to accept, wondered Bob, that Roger cared about his men?  _ What have I to win? Why do I need to despise him so much? Why can’t I afford to care about him? _

And so Bob did not answer Mac. And Mac did not seem to mind. He shifted a bit, letting his face rest against Roger’s dirty hair. Closed his eyes, a slow smile on his lips. 

And so time passed.

Roger cared for each and every one of his men. Mac cared for Roger, beyond duty, beyond Bob’s understanding. So were things, now was the time for Bob to accept it. _And where do I fit now? I have no one. I do not care. Me. Surviving. Me. I could care._ Mac’s breathing was even now, he had fallen asleep. Genuine sleep, his eyes slightly moving under his lids. Light sleep, danger sleep. Bob took a step forward. Survival sleep. He extended his hand, an inch away from Mac’s hair. _And where do I fit now?_ His fingers hovered over it, almost touching. _Tell me?_ A feather-like caress. Desecrating. _I_ _—_

_ I care.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 55 was a short one, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! Thank you for reading, stay safe, and see you next week!


	56. Chapter 56

Bob spent the next hours watching Roger and Mac sleep. 

He had the sick feeling that Mac would know, upon waking up, that he had tried to touch his hair.  _ As if he did not have enough reasons to resent me!  _ Bob had been lucky Mac had not woken up when he had touched him, when he had hurriedly retreated, his hand burned by the fear, by the contact. Would Bob have been able to answer Mac’s questioning eyes, had he woken up? Withstand his judgement?  _ I did no harm _ _ — I did not mean to— _ __

Oh well, it would get him nowhere to think about this. Bob looked away from Mac, and there, for a split second, Bob saw Cavendish. Leaning against the wall by the door, a shadow, the flicker of his silhouette. Bob blinked. The silhouette was gone,  _ must have been a trick of my mind,  _ but the feeling was still here. Bob stood up,  _ He’s dead, it’s just your imagination.  _ But he had to check, just in case. The wall where he had seen Cavendish was calling to him like a magnet. 

Once close enough to inspect it, Bob found nothing wrong with the wall. _What did you expect? A crack? Something written?_ Bob took a deep breath, and placed the palm of his hand against the concrete. The wall was warm to the touch, as if someone had been leaning against him for hours.  _ Just a trick— _

_ “Why did you enlist?” _

Bob turned around, sharp. This voice.  _ It’s his voice.  _ He was certain he had heard it,  _ it must be a trick of my mind.  _

_ He’s dead.  _

Bob touched the wall again. It was cool to the touch, as it should have been.  _ “Have you ever fallen in love?” _

This time, there was no denying it, it was Cavendish’s voice. It could not be a memory, it was too clear, and yet the words sounded familiar to Bob. His heart was beating faster now,  _ “It’s only a matter of time.” _

“Where are you?” Bob felt like a fool the moment the words left his lips. _HE'S DEAD!_

Bob closed his eyes. Cavendish was dead. It was his imagination. He should have been going back to the cot, trying to fall asleep, anything but _—_ _ “Time—” _

_I'm not listening to you. I'm not listening to you._ Bob turned back, away from the door, but as soon as he took a step away in the direction of the cot, he picked up a strange smell in the cell, but was it coming from under the door, from the window, from his memory? 

Decay. 

Antiseptic. 

_ “Time—” _ Could the voice be coming from behind the door? 

“Shut up!” Bob shouted through the wood of the door. “You’re dead! Shut up!” 

No answer came, nothing but a feeling, almost a memory, and the smell, even stronger. Before he knew it, Bob was banging his fists against the door, screaming words he could not hear. With each impact came the memory of a pain he had already felt, carried on  the waves of sadness and guilt and sadness and powerlessness that submerged his mind and heart. Bob hit the door until he had not strength left, and he collapsed against the door. 

Silence. As if he had not screamed, as if nothing had happened. It dawned on Bob, the noise should have woken  Roger and Mac up. But they had not moved, not a hair, not an inch.  _ Something’s wrong. _

Bob crawled to the cot, trying -and failing- to control his breathing.  _ Something’s wrong. _

_ Wrong—  _

He was on the brink of hyperventilating, _What’s_ _ wrong with my mind?  _ Mac was still sleeping, there was no one to comfort him, to tell him that this too, would pass.  Tears were streaming down his face, but there was no one to hear him cry. 

Props. Shadows. Silhouettes living in the deepest part of his mind. 

Memories forgotten as time passed. 

A week could have passed before Bob calmed down. A few seconds could have passed, or a whole eternity, he would not have noticed the difference, but he was better now. he had buried the voice, the presence in the back of his mind, _a trick of my mind._ He was as well as could be expected, waiting for time to pass, until a sound broke the cycle. Bob looked up at once,  _ what happened?  _

_ Oh. _ Nothing much had happened, nothing, just Roger, opening his eyes, casting a glance at Mac, a glance Bob chose not to read or interpret. He got up then, disentangling himself from his sleeping lover. Roger must have noticed Bob looking at him, because he said, voice heavy from sleep, “Hendley,” his tone almost that of a question.

“Roger.” Not a question, not an assertion either.

Testing the waters, an acknowledgement.

“It has been some time.” A beat.  “I should apologize, they’ve been messing up with me and it made me lose all sort of  _ — _ ” Roger finished his sentence with a vague gesture of the hand.

Bob was genuinely taken aback. Was Roger sorry? Apologizing to him? Not for the first time, Bob felt an indescribable admiration for Mac for knowing how to talk to Roger. For understanding a strand of thought, an acknowledgement exchanged through a glance. It was there, almost on the surface, Bob could reach it… if he extended his hand far enough and clawed at the fabric of Roger’s words. Bob would not try to uncover anything, not like this. It did not feel right.  _ Besides you’ve probably said enough. _ Yet Bob knew that he had to answer if he did not want to look like a fool.  _ Look more of a fool than you already are you mean? Shut up. That’ll be difficult. _ “It’s okay. My reaction was not the best either.”  _ See? When you want you can do it. _

Roger smiled, wan, and it was obvious how exhausted, broken he was. Sure, he had not been the most beautiful man when Bob had seen him for the first time back in the camp; but he had been preceded by his reputation, his complexion infused with determination, his eyes the sun, his voice the King and Queen.  _ Now _ _ — _ now Bob saw an endless desert of exhaustion and guilt in his eyes, his face lined, thinned out by suffering. The scar on his eye that had been subject to so many rumors was almost hidden under strands of unkempt bloody hair. Bob wondered if he was looking at his own reflection, they had been terrible, they had been splendid, _ now we’re dying. _

“They have won.” said Roger, sitting down on the cot beside Bob.  _ Why are you talking to me now?  _ It was strange, and yet Bob was not going to stop Roger. “I am _ —  _ I killed you all. ”

“No!” Bob answered instinctively, Mac’s earlier words still fresh in his mind.  _ I hope he will tell me what happened to him.  _ What had Preissen done to Roger to make him say such things? “You _ —  _ You did not _ —  _ I guess _ —” _

“You don’t even believe it. You cannot lie to me .” Roger looked at Mac, and this time Bob could not prevent himself from seeing the fondness in his eyes. The heartbreak. “I killed him. You know what it feels like, don’t you Hendley?”  _ No— No!  _

_Colin_ — “You cannot say that! Mac is alive! He—” It was almost as if Roger wanted for Mac to be dead, and Bob could not bear that thought.

Roger laughed, bitter and too sad for Bob’s taste. There was something mad about that laughter. “He’s already dead.”  _ No! You have Mac, and Mac has you. He’s here. He’s alive. I know he is alive.  _ Bob was terrified.  He had never been close to Roger,  _ the mother of all euphemisms,  _ but that was not Roger.  _ Something’s wrong.  _

“Roger —” Why was Bob still speaking to him? He had no hope of changing Roger's mind. “You are stronger than that .  You are stronger than them. You cannot say that!”

Roger shook his head.  _ You’re innocent _ —  “I have failed, and it has been so long already, so long…” His voice trailed off, and he stood up, readjusting the coat on Mac’s shoulder as if to focus on something else than his own thoughts.  “None of us are strong enough. It’s only a matter of time before we all go mad. We have failed, and it’s my fault.”

_ You have failed.  _

_ I have failed. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and let's all wish this fic a happy birthday! I cannot believe it has already been a year since I started posting it, and what a year it was!  
> Anyway, see you next week :)


	57. Chapter 57

Roger and Bob silently watched over Mac from the cot, sitting beside each other. Mac was sleeping the sleep of the just, away from earthly sorrows. _You’re not strong enough for this game Bob. None of us are strong enough._

Time slowly flowed through the cell, the light they could see from the tiny window barely changing. From time to time, a tremor would shake Roger’s frame, barely suppressed. Bob, trying his best not to care, wondered if it had to do with the cold of the cell or if it was an unconscious reaction to something that was not there, not happening anymore. _Mac will know._ Well, Bob hoped Mac would know what happened to Roger. _Not that I care_ — _but this is just wrong._

_Everything is wrong here—_

Bob had lost count of time when Mac woke up. Blue eyes blinking open once, twice, looking at the cell, at them, then a yawn, then he was looking at them again, “How long have the two of you been watching me?” 

Neither Bob nor Roger answered. Bob would have wanted to answer something stupid, _how long have you been sleeping?_ But he was afraid of Mac’s reaction. What if he did not smile? Bob did not want to give him another reason to be angry at him. It seemed that Mac had not been expecting an answer though, and all Bob could see in his eyes was fondness and exhaustion. Mac stood up, stretched his arms and legs, then drank a bit of water, casting side glances at Roger, _is he waiting for something?_

Roger was not looking at him. In fact, his eyes had not left the spot where Mac had been sleeping, as if he had not even noticed that Mac was awake. Mac must have noticed it, thought Bob. _He always sees everything._ _He’ll know what's wrong with Roger._

Mac walked up to them, then stood up in front of Roger, not threatening, _no not him, never, he is too nice_ , not towering, he simply stood there. Roger looked up at one point, and they locked eyes. Bob could not read the strand of thought they were sharing through their eyes, but never before had he seen their balance of power so reversed. _Power has no meaning here anymore._ In one swift move, Mac had lowered himself to Roger’s level, his voice but a whisper.

“Oh Roger, what did they do to you this time?”

Roger did not answer. Mac did not move, and neither broke eye contact. 

_What didn't they do?_

Bob had the feeling he had to remain silent, to become a statue. Roger was not himself anymore, that much was obvious, but Bob had just realized that it must have been easier for him to put up a facade when facing someone who did not care about him. _Mutual feelings._ Yet with Mac, it was different. Bob could see the changes in his face, in his eyes. A vulnerability he was not ready to accept, and so Bob wished himself invisible.. He did not dare to look at Mac. He was not certain if he could bear to see the despair and sorrow of someone who cared yet was powerless. 

_But Mac managed to bring me back! Why can’t he get Roger to talk?_

Why indeed? 

Bob did not know. It felt to him as if their torturers had weaved a web around their necks and were slowly but surely tightening it until the breaking point. Yet Bob wanted to believe that this was not Roger’s breaking point. Bob remembered, or he thought he did— He could not remember when it had happened, but he had been with Roger in the torture chamber. Yes, he remembered Roger’s defiance. The raw fight, the strength. _The strongest of us all._ But it had been before Bob had lost consciousness, before, before — more than a week. _A week._

_We watched you sleep for a whole week._

A week was a long time to survive. But Roger was here, he was alive. He had talked to Bob, and things should have been all right. He had sounded sane— _And who are you to judge?_ Could it be that Preissen and Dietrich had managed to break Roger down? _I can feel myself breaking._ Roger had never said that. _The next time they take me, I— I will lose my mind._ But then, why did Bob hear it so clearly? Could he have forgotten something? Bob wanted to talk to Mac now. But he wanted to ascertain that Roger had not changed that much. That he was still their leader, still a false god and an unbreakable object. Would it comfort Mac, or would it comfort himself he was not sure.

Yet Bob said no word, and neither did Mac, and neither did Roger. 

For a long time, no one talked.

Mac was waiting, close to Roger, his eyes never leaving him. Roger was looking at him, then at the floor, then his gaze would lose itself in the void. _What happened to him?_ It somehow seemed to Bob that the bond between Mac and Roger had been twisted if not severed, because Mac should have been able to read Roger’s thoughts, because Roger should have confided in him. It should not have been easier for him to talk to Bob, and yet… _and yet_ —

Maybe Bob was truly the problem. Three, a cursed number, two and one that would stay outside. Four minus one, one who would never come back. Bob wanted to subtract himself out of this unnatural trinity, it was too much to see and hear for him, it was not his place. Yet, sleeping was out of the question. Bob could feel his body on edge, his blood pumping beneath his skin. He was too alive to sleep. He was there, painfully there. There was no escape of this deadly place, there was no privacy, there was no solution. 

_I should never have been there. I should have been smarter._ For one split second, Bob had a mad idea. He could try to escape. Run away the next time their cell’s door would be opened, run a few feet, feel the thrill, feel the pain of bullets tearing through his skin, through his flesh and bones… _are you an idiot? You need to survive! Only you can survive!_ Bob closed his eyes. He needed to survive. Whatever pain Roger and Mac were in, he could not wish for leaving the cell. He needed all his energy, he needed to heal. He had better chances of surviving this whole ordeal than them, and he was going to succeed. _Repeat it after me, ‘til you believe it. You’re going to make it._

_I am going to make it._

Fate had a sense of humor, or was listening to Bob, as the sound of steps echoed through the corridor outside their cell. _Maybe they are not here for us. I just have to hope. To believe…_ Yet of course, the steps stopped in front of their door. _Are we the only fucking prisoners in this godforsaken place?_

The door opened, the guards went in. Mac and Roger did not exist anymore but as shields. It was for survival’s sake now, _believe in it!_ Closer to the door than him, more important than him, _take them not me._ Bob saw Mac stand protectively in front of Roger, who slowly got up. No trace of fear on their faces, Roger looked lost, Mac determined, his mouth set in a thin iron-like line that Bob had never see on him. The guards did not care about that, _it’s not their job, they don’t care, please forget me!_ They walked closer to Mac and Roger, and, weapons drawn, separated them. They hastily cuffed Mac, who mouthed something to Roger as he got rid of his coat. Roger answered, but Bob’s ears deafened by his mind’s cry of relief, he only heard a cry, no words. He only heard the door being locked again, the boots walking away. Bob only heard his heart beating. 

It had not been him. 

_It’s okay_ —

Not now. He could hope for more respite, time for his burns to heal, time for his mind to calm down. Time to learn how not to panic, how to survive. How to wake up.

_Better him that me—_

Beside Bob, Roger fell on the ground. But all Bob could see was the closed door, all Bob could hear was the beating of his heart. The relative safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter :D It was actually more difficult to edit than I thought it would be (it's the thing with this loop: it's a difficult one, but I cannot really tell you why without spoiling you, so you'll have to believe me.) Anyway, see y'all next week, love ya.


	58. Chapter 58

Only after Bob’s racing heart calmed down did he realize. Mac had been taken away. Mac. The cell felt bigger, empty. Dark. The feeling of safety had left Bob, sucked out by the emptiness of the cell. _Mac_ — _come back?_

Mac was not dead, Mac would come back. Mac could not abandon them like that. Whatever the Gestapo would do to him, he would come back to them. He cared too much to leave them. Mac could not die, as long as he had someone to live for. That, Bob was certain of it. _Come back._

Of course, Mac did not come back. _What were you thinking_ — Long minutes passed. Roger had not moved, and Bob noticed that his lips were moving. He was repeating the same words over and over again under his breath, eyes closed, lips trembling. Bob could barely hear the words, but it became clearer as he focused on them. “I killed him, I killed him, I killed him—”

Bob was at a loss. What to do, what to say? _Can I do something? I can’t speak to him._

_Mac, tell me, can I do something?_

“I killed him, I killed him, I killed him—” Roger’s voice was breaking down, Bob could not leave Roger like that. _You can try._ He despised him, yes. _Why again?_ They had been in conflict before, yes. _Colin… Roger was right, wasn’t he? Shut up!_ Bob had been jealous of Roger’s aura, of his power, of his charisma, of his relationship with Mac. _Please, come back._ Would Bob let this jealousy, this spite, turn him into something he was not? He had been proud to call himself a good man, charmer with a heart of gold… would he step so low as to abandon his fellow man to despair or folly? _Oh God please, make him come back._

No. For the sake of all he had done before, for the sake of Colin, _Mac would have wanted me to take care of him._ So, Bob reached for Roger, shook his shoulder, no reaction. The same litany “…I killed him, I killed him, I killed him—” _Yes you did, you killed us all._

Bob shook Roger’s shoulder again, stronger this time, _everything is your fucking fault!_ It was as if Roger had not noticed Bob’s presence, Bob’s hands on him, _it’s your fault we followed you!_ Tears were coursing down his face now, and Bob would never have been ready for such a sight. _It’s you’re fault we needed hope—_ Roger did not cry. In Bob’s world, Roger was not weak, Roger was above them all. In Bob’s world, Roger was barely human. — _it’s your fault you were the only one who could unite us all._ Bob did not know what to do. Had he been like that too, when he had lost himself? What had Mac done to bring him back? _It’s your fault Mac loves you and will follow you to the end…_ Which words of love, which words of hope had Mac used on him? _It’s your fault Roger, I hate you so much, it’s your fault I’m here,_ Bob did not know any words of love, any words of hope, when it came to Roger.

_—it’s your fault Colin escaped with me, IT’S YOUR FAULT IF HE’S DEAD!_

Bob’s blood was boiling in his veins, poisoned by powerlessness, bitterness and confusion. What to do, what to say? _It’s your fault Cavendish died! It’s you fault that they will kill Mac—_ Bob tried his best not to think about that outcome. He would never believe Mac dead as long as he had no proof. Mac would come back, would prove Roger wrong. He would come back, maybe bloody, injured, broken down, but he would come back. He would take Roger into his caring hands, he would heal his soul. And with one glance, he would heal Bob too. _Mac... please be alive._

_Prove me wrong._

Yet, it was clear to Bob that they could not wait for Mac’s return. _As if he will return._ Roger was bound to do something stupid, to hurt himself… ‘ _it will only be worse.’_ Mac had been right, he was always right. Bob felt a uncharacteristic sense of duty rise within him. During Mac’s absence, it was his duty to bring Roger back. And to do that, Bob saw only one solution. He was sorry in advance, _no, no I am not._ Yet for once, Bob did not listen to his internal voice. He grabbed Roger’s shoulder again, for leverage this time and slapped him, not thinking one second about the consequences.

Roger’s head barely jerked backwards, and at first he did not react. _It did nothing! Well done!_ Then, his eyes started to focus back, he lifted his head and locked eyes with Bob. _Oh no he’s gonna be furious! Don’t hurt me!_ Yet Roger did nothing of the sort. He looked at Bob, disheveled, bewildered. As if he was waking up.

“Hendley.” _You remember me, great._ “Thank you.”

Bob shrugged, _I can’t believe this actually worked._ “You’re welcome I guess.”

Roger swept a hand on his face and sighed. He sat down gingerly on the cot, looked at Bob again. “Hendley… look what has become of us.”

Bob nodded, he could did not know what to add. What had become of them indeed? They were inches away from being dead, left to the rawest of emotions, the boundaries of reality and illusion lost to them. Yet they were alive, not giving in. Bob remembered all too well how confused he had been, when Preissen’s words had taken control of his mind. Could it be that Roger had fallen prey to such machinations too? “None of us are strong enough. It seems you were right after all Roger.”

Roger smiled, sad and sincere, recognizing his words from earlier. He looked at the door and answered: “Mac was strong enough.” He closed his eyes to compose himself. “The strongest of us all.”

“Yes,” said Bob. There was nothing else to say. In their microcosm, Mac was the sun and stars and divine breath that gave life. He kept them together, _I still have a reason to see the light._ Painfully absent.

Roger picked Mac’s coat up from the floor as he spoke. He did not wear it, as Bob had expected him to do, but went back to sit on the cot, and started fidgeting, _him, fidgeting!_ with one of the wrists on the coat. His fingers kept touching the seam as he was talking, “It might have only been five years, but I have the impression I spent my whole life with him.” The fondness was thick in Roger’s voice. It made sense to Bob now, their relationship. They did not need to speak, they could always count on each other, they had had each other for so long… longer than Bob had never had anyone. “Now he is dead, because of me.”

Bob could not really contradict Roger here. Yet, even if their death was unavoidable, Bob did not understand why Roger was so adamant Mac would die now. There was something, he mused, something Roger knew and he did not. Something that had to do with what had happened these past few days… _something a Gestapo guy said maybe? Something in the air?_ He tried to remember what Roger, Mac or even Cavendish could have said before, anything to make the picture clearer in him mind. Could it be, that they were using Mac to make Roger talk? And if Roger had refused to cooperate… _will they really kill Mac? Or is it all a lie?_ Bob wanted to comfort Roger, _are you kidding me? Robert Hendley, you of all people, you—_ “It’s not your fault Roger.”

Roger looked at Bob, bewildered. _You hypocritical little shit!_ “You don’t even believe it Hendley.” Roger’s voice was exhausted, devoid of resentment.

 _Ah!_ “I used not to.” Bob had chosen to be honest for once, if it could help them, if it could shut his mind up… “I changed my mind on the way.” _As if!_

Roger did not answer at once, looking down, his fingers twisting the fabric of Mac’s coat. “I am sorry you had to.” 

There was nothing Bob could add to that, and silence took over the cell for long hours.

The silence of the cell was suddenly broken by steps, the clicking of heels on tiles. Bob instinctively tensed up, yet the steps did not stop, hurried. Roger had let go of the coat as soon as he had heard the noise, but he had taken it back up when it had been clear that there was no danger. He was still fidgeting with the same wrist. _You will not find the solution in a bloody coat, stop that! But why does it seem so familiar?_

Long after there were no prying, stepping boots around, Roger whispered: “I am sorry for Colin.”

Bob was dumbfounded. _Why? Why now? Why Colin!_ “I—” He could not finish his sentence, too shocked to speak properly. Roger did not seem to care, looking at his hands, and it should have given Bob time to find something to answer. Honesty was the best choice at the end of all things, and yes he could not say a word. So many memories were coming back to his mind, poisoned by Preissen’s words, distorted by his fear for Colin, by the thrill of victory. 

Jumping off the train

_He’s coming with me!_

The plane.

_Oh hell, we’ll make it in great shape!_

The memories kept coming, and with them the overwhelming guilt that turned is tongue into lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, an look, I posted on time for once!  
> See you next week, ILY <3

**Author's Note:**

> Side/End note: Only the prologue, first, second, third and fourth part are 85 chapters long. As when I have finished publishing part 3, I will add the number of chapters for part 5. So don't worry if you see the max chapter count go up :)  
> Also, although the fic was beta-ed, i am re-editing it as I post, so there might be new typos. I usually go over each new chapter the day after I post it just in case, but i am sorry if you encounter any.


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